Guiding Change and Making Progress
by jmaddox1815
Summary: John wasn't the only one who found someone while Sherlock was away. Rose Creekwood, DI Lestrade's girlfriend and current resident of 221C Baker Street, has no desire to share in Sherlock's spotlight, but her own past and her position in Greg's life and Sherlock's house may help them adjust to the changes spinning at them from all directions. SPOILERS FOR SEASON 3. POSSIBLE TRIGGERS
1. Chapter 1

_**Thank you for taking the time to read this story. To everyone who's followed me over from **__**Words Like Bullets, **__**welcome back. This is a much less angst-ridden story. Rose and Lestrade are already in a settled relationship. This is more about how Rose helps Greg handle having Sherlock back and how she helps Sherlock accept the changes happening all around him. It's still rated M, but mainly because I thought having Sherlock constantly interrupt Greg and Rose while they're trying to be intimate would be funny. ;)**_

_**Anyway, I hope everyone, old and new, enjoys.**_

_**J.M.**_

_**P.S. I am American. I've never been to the U.K. and the only thing I know about the syntax and slang is what I can pick up from BBC shows on Netflix. I'm sorry if I completely mutilate it here. **_

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Change is inevitable. Progress is optional. ~Tony Robbins

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The coffee mug shattered as Rose Creekwood heard Mrs. Hudson scream from upstairs. Acting quickly, she grabbed her largest cast iron skillet and inched up the short flight separating her basement apartment from her landlady's on the first floor.

A tall, slender, dark-haired man stood in the entrance hall, one hand over Mrs. Hudson's mouth to stifle her shouts.

Safe, Greg had said. Lots of looky-loos and a few souvenir hunters, but safe. Not to mention affordable, which she needed on her meager salary. Sure the place was a bit damp, but it was private and it came with the adorably fussy Mrs. Hudson.

The same adorably fussy Mrs. Hudson that was currently being suffocated by a skinny intruder. "Oi!" The man glanced back, revealing a pair of startling grey eyes. "Back off my landlady!"

Rose swung the skillet as hard as she could, connecting to his skull with a satisfying _whump_!

The man fell to the floor. She jumped over his body, rushing to Mrs. Hudson. "Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"

"Oh, Rosie." Mrs. Hudson moaned. "Rosie… what have you done?"

"I knocked out a burglar."

"You knocked out Sherlock Holmes!"

Rose blinked down at the unconscious man bleeding on the foyer's floor. "Well… shit. I guess I'd better call Greg."

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Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, fighting against the throbbing in his head and bringing Mrs. Hudson's worried face into focus. Groaning, he sat up on the horrid, floral couch. "Who hit me?"

"That, umm… that would be me." A small blond woman with big green eyes in a lilac robe stepped forward, waving shyly. "Sorry about that. I'm Rose Creekwood. I live downstairs. I wouldn't have hit you, but, you know, we thought you were dead."

"Obviously I'm not." He glared up at her, raking her over from head to toe. "You must be joking. Rapunzel hit me with a skillet."

"To be fair, Sherlock, I was holding a skillet as well." Mrs. Hudson murmured, dabbing at the back of his head with a wet rag.

He winced, jerking away. "Yes, but you didn't hit me with it."

"She screamed!" Rose exclaimed, crossing her arms over her chest. "I came upstairs to find you with your hand over her mouth! What was I supposed to do?"

"Call the police."

"Technically, she did." Lestrade strode into the room, nodding a hello to Mrs. Hudson and giving Rose a quick kiss. "Though not until after she knocked you out, as I understand it. Is that right, darling?"

"That about sums it." Rose grinned, standing on her tip-toes to claim another kiss. "How was your day, sweetheart?"

"Caught a murderer, had an old friend come back from the dead, smoked far too much. Not an ordinary day, but not terrible."

"You're smoking again? Do you have a cigarette on you? I'd kill for a smoke right now."

"Excuse me." Sherlock interrupted, glaring at them both. "Lestrade, as pleased as I am to see that you've moved past your ex-wife and the P.E. instructor, your little American has just assaulted me. Aren't you going to arrest her?"

Rose rolled her eyes, walking into the kitchen to make them some tea. Mrs. Hudson was still fretting over Sherlock's head and Greg would talk the (formerly) dead detective out of pressing charges.

A year, she'd been here, and she'd heard all the stories. How brilliant Sherlock was. How he threw a man out a window for threatening Mrs. Hudson. How, even though most of his deductions were to satisfy his own ego, he used his talents to care for and protect his friends. Greg's theory was that Sherlock had a mild form of autism. It made it difficult for him to connect with and understand people the way average humans did, but, once someone made it broke through that carefully cultivated shell he kept in place, they were in his life forever. "Once I thought about it that way, it was easy to deal with him."

Then Sherlock had committed suicide, or so they thought, and there had been so much guilt, from everyone, surrounding the great detective's death. Those who had kept the faith felt they should have done more to help him. Those who thought him a fraud regretted pushing him toward his death. Then there were those who hadn't known where to stand, and the simple fact that they'd doubted him at all allowed grief and shame to tear them apart.

She'd seen things get better in the last year at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson's late night need to talk or cry had tapered off. John Watson stopped by more often, slowly moving his things out of 221B and staying to chat with his former landlady. Anderson was slowly losing his mind, but, after discovering how forcefully he and Donovan had pushed the idea that Sherlock was a fraud, she couldn't find it in herself to have any pity for the man. Best of all, Greg was slowly accepting that doubt did not equal pushing Sherlock off the roof and he was moving past his friend's death.

"You don't have to do that." Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, bustling in with the rag and a bowl of pink water. "I can take care of it."

"Its fine, Mrs. Hudson. I'm just letting it brew." Rose carefully took the bowl form her landlady's shaking hands and washed it out. "I still haven't adjusted to drinking hot, black tea with milk and sugar."

"Don't worry, Rosie. You'll adapt. You just need a bit more time." Mrs. Hudson remarked, absently patting her tenant's shoulder. "I can't believe he's back. I never believed he was dead, of course, not truly, but to see him here in the flesh! It's…"

"Miraculous." Rose finished, setting the towel to soak in cold water. A blood-stained wash cloth probably wasn't the reminder Louise would want of Sherlock's escape from the grave. "Go catch up with him. I'll bring in the tea and then I'm heading back downstairs. The funeral home needs four obituaries by morning."

"Thank you, dear, though I wish you wouldn't mention your work so casually." Mrs. Hudson shuddered. "Should I send Detective Inspector Lestrade in?"

"You both need to catch up with Mr. Holmes. Rose waved Mrs. Hudson out of the kitchen. "I can handle things in here.

The low drone of voices and laughter was comforting, even if the husky tome of a newcomer constantly reminded her that there were more than people she loved in the next room. She'd become relaxed in the quiet life she created for herself in 221C Baker Street. She had a wonderful friend and confidante in Mrs. Hudson, a boyfriend who she loved and who adored her in return, and a simple routine that kept her calm and grounded. Hearing the joy in the other room cemented her contentment in this place.

She sliced a lemon for Greg and placed the citrus on a tray with cream, sugar, and three mugs of teas before carrying the bounty into the living room. Sherlock's eyes speared into her, and she tried not to let her smile waver. "Here we go. Hot tea with all the fixin's."

"Not only American, but southern."

"I was born in Louisiana."

"Not near New Orleans, however."

"Don't do this to her, Sherlock."

"It's ok, Greg." Rose placed a hand on her boyfriend's shoulder. "Let him deduce. It can't hurt anything." She leveled a stare at the risen Lazarus. "Go ahead, Mr. Holmes. What can you tell about me?"

"You're from somewhere near Shreveport. Most likely a small town with a population of less than 500. Lower middle-class, but a quiet, respectable family that taught you decent manners, for an American. Your mother was happy to have a girl, as evidenced by that hideous example of lace and silk you're using as a dressing gown, but other influences, multiple older brothers or male cousins perhaps, led you toward a more traditionally masculine path.

"You're the youngest of your generation, but the only female, so you took on the role of nurturer. When your brothers and cousins got into trouble, you helped hide the incidents from your conservative family. A rather large, extended family ran by a patriarch, your grandfather, who is obviously quite fond of you." Sherlock nodded toward the antique ring she wore on her right hand.

"You are relatively new to London, but not to the U.K. You started off somewhere in Wales, following one of those brothers or cousins on a business venture and staying after things went sour. Living here gave you freedom from the double-life you led back home, as you are considerably more liberal than your family. If the Ally Flower tattooed on your ankle is anything to go by, that is.

"You're not well-educated, but not because you're unintelligent. Family loyalty kept you from pursuing a formal level of higher education, but you've continued to seek out knowledge on your own.

"You hold some sort of office job, a temp or secretary, and subsidize your income with the odd written project. Despite your talent for writing, you have no desire to develop that into a full-time career.

"DI Lestrade has been your lover for at least 18 months and suggested this space to you. Mainly because Scotland Yard still has any call emanating from 221 Baker Street on the 'respond immediately' list, but also because your instincts to nurture and protect mesh perfectly with the same instincts in Mrs. Hudson. Also, you used to play softball." Sherlock sat back, a smug smile in place.

Rose started laughing. If this was the great Sherlock Holmes then his talents had been greatly exaggerated. She could count on one hand the number of facts he'd gotten right. "Close, but no cigar, Mr. Holmes. I have work to do." She gave Greg a kiss and waved to Mrs. Hudson. "Good night everyone. I'll see you in the morning. Sorry about your head, Mr. Holmes. I guess I did more damage than I thought."

Greg grinned, walking her out. "Should I let him know?"

"Tell him what he got right." Rose suggested impishly. "Let him stew over the rest. He deserves it for calling me Rapunzel."

"Blond hair. Green eyes. You used a frying pan as a weapon. I can see the-"

"If you finish that thought, you will never sleep in my bed again." She warned, stopping at the top of the stairs. She looped her arms around Lestrade's neck, melting into the familiar feel of his hands on her hips. "Go back and visit with The Resurrected One. It's been two years. You have a lot of catching up to do."

"You don't mind?"

"I didn't even expect to see you tonight. Having this little bit of time is more than enough." She gave him a light kiss and pushed him toward Mrs. Hudson's flat. "Go. You know where I am if you need me."

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	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade stomped down to Rose's flat, mumbling curses about a certain arrogant detective as he went.

There had been a bomb. A bomb that could have killed hundreds of innocent people, and did the almighty Sherlock Holmes think to call the proper authorities and let them handle it? No. Of course not. The fool had done what he always did and rushed in on his own, nearly getting himself and John Watson killed in the process.

Still grumbling, he made his way into the kitchen, ignoring Rose's silent smirk. This wasn't the first time Greg had came in like this, and it wouldn't be the last. Sherlock was only the cause of this week's fits of temper. Muttering empty threats, he poured a measure of bourbon and collapsed next to her on the couch. "I hate him."

"No you don't."

"I want to."

"No you don't."

She hadn't looked up from whatever outline she was sketching out. Curious, he looked over and saw the bare bones structure of a birth announcement. She never typed anything out until she had at least three hand-written drafts first. He secretly thought it was adorable. "You hate him."

"I don't know him." Rose corrected, erasing a phrase and rewording it. "Therefore, I'd rather avoid him. How many times did you run into me at the morgue before I said more than two words to you?"

"Five." Greg grinned, setting his glass on the coffee table and sliding his arm around her shoulders. "I counted. Do you know how foolish I felt, trailing you about and prattling on about stab wounds and overdoses while you just smiled, nodded, and created little backstories for unidentified vagrants and runaways?" He nuzzled her neck. "Do you remember what you said?"

"If I agree to have coffee with you, will you let me work in peace?" Rose closed her notebook with a resigned sigh. "That was several hundred coffees ago. You still don't let me work in peace."

He smiled against her throat, kissing the pulse point. "That's because you never take a break. If you're not answering phones for the funeral parlour, then you're off collecting obituary commissions for them or birth announcement for the hospital, or wedding and anniversary announcement for the reception halls. You work more than I do."

"A girl's gotta pay the bills." She rolled, climbing up to straddle his lap. "Tell me about your day, sweetheart."

Lestrade rested his head against the back of the couch, stifling a groan as Rose ground against him. "You want me to talk about death, robbery, and paperwork while you're doing _that_?"

"I just want to hear your voice." She whispered seductively.

"I believe that is called narratophilia."

Rose paused before dropping her head on Greg's chest with a disappointed groan. "Make him go away."

"He won't."

"Try."

"Have you ever heard of an exercise in futility?"

She peeked up at him, scowling. The effect was marred by the pink blush staining her cheeks. Petulantly, she climbed off Greg's lap, making it blatantly clear that he'd have to hide his own "problem." "Narratophilia is a sexual fetish connected to explicit or obscene language, not simply the sound of someone's voice, Mr. Holmes. What I have is an accent kink."

"No wonder you didn't go back to America." Sherlock walked into her kitchen as if he owned it. The detective was entirely too familiar with the layout, but, since this was the third time in as many days that he'd walked through uninvited, he should be. "I suppose your cousin was devastated when you chose not to return with him."

"Is he still harping on that tired old angle?" Rose asked, glancing at her boyfriend.

Greg laughed. "He'll stop if you tell him."

"Why on earth would I do that? This is my passive-aggressive form of vengeance on your behalf. Confuse him, sit back, and watch him squirm."

"I am not confused." Sherlock asserted, settling into the arm chair near the fireplace with a glass of iced tea. She'd managed to get him hooked on it the first time he broke in and she half-suspected it was why he kept coming back. "You're lying."

Rose's eyebrows shot to the middle of her forehead. "Am I now? Go on then. Enlighten me."

"Reoccurring photos on your wall with several men, all older and of different facial construction than you. Frequent e-mails back and forth with someone you refer to as 'Bubba.' And, your Facebook page is littered with requests from various family members asking their 'little girl' to return home."

She nodded, smiling slightly. "Are any of those photos professionally done?"

"Only one, which depicts what I can only assume is you as a young teenager with two men I presume are your uncles."

"Why do you assume that?"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "Louisiana, like most of America's deep south, is socially backward. It is statistically unlikely that they could be your parents as homosexuals are still not legally allowed full joint-adoption in most states."

Rose grinned, settling back on the couch. Greg shook his head, nudging her in the ribs. "Just tell him, Rosie. Put the poor sod out of his misery."

"But this is so much fun!"

"Rosie…"

"Fine." She faux pouted a bit, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. "Your mistake was in assuming that just because I was _born_ in Louisiana meant that I _stayed_ in Louisiana. I grew up in the foster system and ran away at twelve."

"Sexual abuse?"

"No." The word was a warning telling him not to push. "I made it all the way to Maryland before the cops caught me and threw me back in the system. I was placed with the men you saw in that photograph, my fathers. They saved me. The folks you see in those photos are either people from the group home I lived in before I ran away, or people from the neighborhood. They're not all men.

"My fathers lived in a heavy LGBTQ area in Boston. This was when adoptions were just starting to become legal for same-sex couples and I was one of the few children in the neighbourhood. Many of our friends and neighbours, especially the ones that hadn't settled into a long-term relationship yet and therefore _couldn't_ adopt, took me in as their 'little girl' along with my fathers.

"When my parents split up a few years ago and Daddy moved to Swansea to take over his uncle's funeral home, I came with him. Then, when he bought out a run-down parlour here in London, I moved to get the place out of the red. I always meant to go back, but I like London and Daddy said he'd prefer to have someone he trusted here than someone he had to take on faith. Oh!" She turned to Greg. "That reminds me. Pop called and confirmed that he's flying out for Christmas."

"Isn't Aaron going to be here for Christmas?"

"Yep."

Lestrade grinned, nodding as understanding set in. "I'll come around after I pick up Joseph, gun and handcuffs at the ready. We'll make a big, family holiday."

"Boring!" Sherlock shouted. "I'd like to revise my deductions now."

"Nope." Rose tugged him to his feet. "Go detox from the adrenaline of your latest near-death-experience. I have some running to do in the morning, but you can stop by after one, if you like."

"I can?" The detectives brows rose.

She took juvenile pleasure in the fact that she'd surprised him. "I can't exactly keep you out, Mr. Holmes. Good night. Sweet dreams. Congratulations on stopping a terrorist. Any other nicety I'm forgetting."

She shut the door in his face, locking it and sliding the chain home for good measure. When no rattling or sounds of locks being picked emerged from the other side, Rose slunk back to the couch. Greg pulled her over until her head rested on his chest. Closing her eyes, she mumbled, "I hate him."

"No you don't."

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	3. Chapter 3

**_Thanks to everyone who has followed or favorited this story. You're the reason these stories keep going._**

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Rose bolted awake to the sound of sirens. Red and blue lights flashed through the tiny window above her living room, highlighting the space with an eerie, strobe-light effect. Fearing the worst, she rushed upstairs.

"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!" She banged on her landlady's door. "Mrs. Hudson, please tell me you're alright!"

"Goodness, Rosie. I thought you weren't feeling well." Mrs. Hudson opened the door, in the process of untying her apron. "What's all the fuss about? Is your fever causing hallucinations?"

Wordlessly, Rose gestured out the open front door. The women exchanged panicked glances. "Sherlock."

They took off toward 221B, running pell-mell up the stairs. Rose truly had heard all the stories. A few nights ago, curious about her eccentric neighbour, she'd even looked up John Watson's blog. What could it be this time? Another bomb? Megalomaniacal madman? Hostage situation?

Lestrade caught them at the top of the stairs. "Everything's fine, Rosie." He murmured, resting his head against her shoulder. She could feel him sucking in deep breaths, trying to control his rage. "I overreacted."

"What happened?" Mrs. Hudson was crowded up against them on the small landing. Giving the woman a pointed glance, Rose waved her through.

Greg was shaking with anger and fury, his hand gripping her hip tight enough to leave bruises in an attempt not to punch a wall. She'd seen him like this a few times since they started dating, usually after a case went sour in court. Greg was a good man, and an excellent cop. He could handle not being able to solve a crime, but to figure it out, to know he had the person and they walked out because of a loophole, tore him apart. He needed an outlet, and quickly, before he exploded and destroyed the area.

"Come on, sweetheart." Rose whispered, unclenching his hand and leading him down the stairs. "Come talk to me."

He dutifully followed her, carefully measuring each breath. As soon as she closed her door behind them, he blew.

"I had them, Rosie!" He shouted, pacing around her living room. "I had them! The Waters Gang. They were right there, ready to be caught in the act, and _Sherlock_," Greg spit out the name like a curse, "texts me, saying he's in needs help. That it's urgent! Do you know what he needed help with?" Rose mutely shook her head, standing against the door and out of his path. "His best man speech! I walk away from the biggest arrest of my career, call in every bit of back-up I can find, and rush over here because the bloody psychopath doesn't know how to tell the difference between urgent and as soon as possible!" He growled, kicking the wall. "I had them, Rosie! Six months, and I had them! They were right. Fucking. There."

He punctuated each statement with a kick to wall. On his last kick, he broke through the plaster. Rose couldn't help it. Maybe it was the fever, maybe it was shock settling in as the adrenaline wore off, maybe it was simple hysteria, but a bubble of laughter worked its way up her throat and escaped before she could stop it. Helplessly, she fell into a heap of giggles on the floor.

Lestrade paused, looking from Rose to the damage and back again. He started laughing too, sinking onto the floor next to her. The two sat there, cackling like loons, for what felt like hours before their mirth subsided enough for them to calm down. Still chuckling, she crawled over, laying her head on his knee. "You're fixing that."

"I'll come by this weekend."

"Next weekend. You have Joseph this weekend." She reminded him. Rose closed her eyes, winding down.

Joseph Lestrade was a sweet little boy with blond hair and his mother's brown eyes who positively adored his father. He wasn't such a big fan of Rose, but that was only because, like most children, he still held onto the hope that his mother and father would get back together. In his eyes, Rose prevented that from happening. Greg wanted to bring him around her as much as possible, thinking that by showing Joseph she wasn't going anywhere, his son would accept the fact that his parents would never reconcile. Rose made him strike a balance, and, one of the two weekends Greg got with his son each month, all three of them would go to a museum, or out to a restaurant, or to a carnival, while the other weekend was strictly for father and son.

She'd already been full-grown and out on her own when her parents split up. Of course, she always hoped that they'd fix all the silly little things they'd spouted as what was wrong with their relationship, but, when Pop had started dating again, she never held it against his boyfriends. Rose accepted them as a new and (hopefully) temporary part of her life and pretended to like them for her father's sake. Joseph couldn't do that. He was an eleven year-old boy who had his parents split up just over two years ago and now had a father who was dating a woman young enough to be his big sister. There was only a 15 year difference between Rose and Greg's son, and she knew that made him just as uncomfortable as the fact that his father was serious about anyone at all.

Lestrade stroked his thumb along her temple, smiling down at her. "You're not angry."

It wasn't a question, but Rose treated it like one. "Nope. You were; you broke some things; it's over."

"I put a hole in your wall."

"And you'll fix it." She yawned, pushing herself up. "There's no reason to be mad."

He pulled her over, settling her in his lap. "You're burning up."

"I told you I was sick."

"Why aren't you in bed?"

"I was. I was in the middle of a nice nap. Then there were sirens and flashing lights and I thought Mrs. Hudson was in trouble." She curled against his chest. These were the times she loved most. Despite her past, or maybe because of it, Rose had never cared much for the initial rush of a relationship. It was always too fractured, too fast. This is what she preferred. The calm stability. The point where you know and understand each other and can give your partner what they need without asking. The quiet comfort they provide just by being there. It was bliss. "Then she wasn't, and we thought Sherlock was, and, well, you know the rest."

Greg kissed the top of her head, smiling into her hair. "I'd forgotten about this part of him. I used to know, just by the way the messages came in, if it was important or not. Two years dulled my instincts."

"You'll get them back." Rose was confident of that. "Even if you don't, you did the right thing today. You never know with Sherlock Holmes. You've said it yourself."

"This arrest could have made my career."

"And if it had been something serious, and Sherlock had been injured or dead when you did show up, you never would have forgiven yourself." She tilted her head back, waiting until he looked down. "I'm going to give you a hard truth, and you're not going to like it… You're never going to move up from where you are now." His mouth hardened, but she ignored it. "And that's the best thing that can ever happen to you, you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because you care about _people_, Greg. Not statistics or publicity, but people. That's why you walked away from the Waters arrest. That's why you didn't write Sherlock off a long time ago. It's why you put up with Mystrade Holmes and why you'll never be anything more than Detective Inspector Lestrade. Because in order to get any higher than you are now, you'd have to become a cold, manipulative, grasping opportunist and that's not who you are. People matter more to you than prestige and that's fantastic, because that's rare."

She reached up, cupping his cheek in her palm. "So this will happen again. You'll be in the middle of an important arrest, or a publicity stunt, or whatever else it is the higher-ups ask you to do, and a simple person will call in need of help, and you'll go. It might be Sherlock, but he calls because he knows you'll come, that you're one of the few people he can trust to appear when he needs help. It might be Mrs. Hudson or Mr. Watson or his fiancé, and they'll call because they know you care. It might be me, because sometimes, living in this place, knowing who's living right above me and what kind of people he attracts, I get scared, and I need you to check my closets and behind my shower curtain for boogeymen. And you'll always show up, because we matter more to you than all the fame in the world. As far as I'm concerned, that makes you more significant, more exceptional, than any commissioner or consulting detective could ever dream of being, because it means that you're out there, doing a job you love, for the right reasons, and if you have to give up any part of that to move up the ladder, then dammit, baby, cling to the middle rung."

Greg laughed, leaning down to kiss her. "Cling to the middle rung?"

"Well, bottom rung would be someone fresh out of academy and top rung would be what you would've been promoted to if Sherlock hadn't called, so, yeah, middle rung." She grinned up at him, eyes sparkling. "You are perfect. Well, not perfect. We've got to try to do something about your snoring, and your temper can be a little scary at times, but other than that, you're a flawless example of a human being. And I'll have a talk with Sherlock about paying more attention to crimes besides weird murders that way he won't interrupt important arrests as often."

"Do you honestly think he'll listen?"

"I honestly think he likes coming down here and driving me nuts with deductions, and I honestly think he likes that he has permission. I think most people kick him out." Rose yawned, curling closer to him. "You don't have to go back to work, do you?"

He laid his cheek across the top of her head. "Unfortunately. But I'll come 'round after, yeah? Right now, we need to get you back to bed. You're burning up and about to start drooling on me."

"I don't drool."

"Then I don't snore."

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	4. Chapter 4

_**Thank you to everyone who has followed or favorited this story.**_

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"You're a psychopath!"

"No." Sherlock corrected calmly. "I'm a high functioning sociopath, and I have your number."

Rose laughed from the couch, flipping through her book. She'd been sitting through Sherlock's meetings with the wedding party all day, at Greg's request. Apparently the great detective needed a chaperone. So far it had been efficient and formal, but there were other times, like now, where she had to stop herself from egging him on. All those brilliant deductions were as hilarious as they were amazing, when they weren't directed at her.

David jetted out of the apartment like the hounds of hell were on his heels, and Rose started in on Edgar Allen Poe's _The Black Cat_. People could claim that Poe was morbid and perverse all they liked, but she loved his work. There's something to be said about a writer's talent when they can still give you nightmares over 150 years after their death. It's one of the reasons she still liked _Frankenstein_ as well.

"Now then, who's next?" Sherlock interrupted rifling through the reams of paper scattered across the table.

Rose rolled her eyes. She'd confiscated the schedule as soon as she walked in, afraid he'd lose it in the forest of printed lists. "You have a two hour break for lunch and then little Archie is coming in. His mother phoned. He's being difficult about the outfit."

"Why?"

"Because he's a child and it's a tuxedo. You can't run around and get dirty in a tuxedo."

"Ah. Well then." Sherlock stood, moving to grab his coat. "Are you hungry?"

She peeked at him from over the edge of her book. "Is that a literal question or your way of asking me if I'd like to have lunch with you?"

"Both."

"Yes." She slipped the book in her messenger bag. "Down to the sandwich shop, then?"

He opened the door, gesturing for her to leave first. "Actually, I know a shop down in Chiswick. The owner always gives me extra portions. I tried taking Molly, but she wasn't able to make it."

"Molly Hooper? The coroner at Bart's?"

"You know her?"

"Hazard of my profession." Rose hopped down the stairs, waving to Mrs. Hudson as she headed out the door. "Hard not to know the coroner when you have to stop by and collect bodies or possessions."

Sherlock nodded, flagging down a taxi. The two rode to the shop in silence. Rose stared out the window. It didn't matter how long she'd lived there, London always fascinated her. The architecture alone, the odd blend of old and new, was enough to make anyone gasp in wonder. She could feel Sherlock's eyes on her, sizing her up, making more deductions. Whatever they were, he kept them to himself.

The shop was more of a stand, specializing in fish-and-chips. Rose smiled, remembering the first time she and Daddy had tried to order lunch in Swansea. They'd both asked for chips with their sandwiches and ended up with a fries. It took a patient server explaining that, in the U.K., fries were chips and chips were crisps. Rose had still ended up eating French fries more often than not. When you've been ingrained to call things one thing your entire life, it's hard to switch to something else, and a mixture of pride and embarrassment kept her from admitting her mistake.

Quietly, Rose paid for their food, shooting Sherlock a warning glare when he tried to protest. He'd paid for the cab. She could cover their meal.

"Are you going to be at the wedding? Lestrade did RSVP with a plus one." He asked as they settled onto a picnic bench.

Rose shrugged, poking at her fish skeptically. She'd never been a big fan of fish, even as a child, but there were a few places Greg had taken her to that weren't terrible. "He added that as a precaution. We're still discussing it." She gave up on the fish. It's not that she didn't trust Sherlock, except, well… she didn't trust Sherlock. "I'm not quite sure someone who spends her days around grieving families is the best person to bring to a wedding."

"I'm a high functioning sociopath who attributes the idea of love to an overabundance of hormones, and I'm the best man." Sherlock hadn't touched his food. Instead he was staring at her, fingers templed under his chin." "What is the true reason you don't want to go?"

"You're the detective." She picked up a fry, eyeing it warily. "Figure it out."

"You're afraid of commitment."

Rose sputtered, choking on the fried potato she'd decided to try. "Excuse me?"

"You moved into Baker Street one year ago. By my estimation, you had been dating Gary-"

"Greg. Lestrade's name is Greg."

He rolled his eyes. "Never mind that. You and he had been together for approximately six months by that point. That is the beginning of a steady relationship and, if John is anything to go by, a more than acceptable amount of time had passed for you to move into his flat. Instead you take a tiny, damp set of basement rooms half a city away from your 'Lord Love.' That suggests not only a need for your own space, but a deep seated fear of commitment. Most likely that is due to your foster upbringing and transient lifestyle prior to be being placed with the men you refer to as your parents."

She nodded, searching through the bottles at the edge of the table for some mustard. "Legitimate deduction."

"Why do I sense and 'but' coming?"

"But," Rose grinned, settling for ketchup, "Greg and I had only been dating for a month when I had to give up my apartment."

"Flat."

"What?"

"You are in the process of becoming a legal citizen of the United Kingdom." Sherlock pointed out. "Use the proper terminology. It may be an apartment in Boston, but in London it is a flat." He broke apart a fish filet. "Why did you have to give up your original flat?"

"A homeless boy came in and applied for a job as a mortician's assistant." She watched him carefully, waiting for him to chew and swallow before she picked up her own piece of cod. "He didn't have anywhere to stay, and the parlour was turning enough of a profit that I could afford my own place, so I gave him my apar- flat above the garage and Greg pointed me towards Mrs. Hudson."

"You gave your flat, which required absolutely no rent from you, to a homeless child, as well as giving him a job." He sounded out slowly, looking at her as if she were insane. "Why?"

Rose shrugged. "Technically, it's three homeless children now. Brandon is eighteen and he works as the mortician's assistant, and Rudy and Stella are sixteen. They do a bit of cleaning at night and go to school during the day."

"That still doesn't answer why."

"Their parents kicked them out for being gay. They needed jobs and a home so that they could finish their educations. I could provide both just by moving." She checked her watch. "We need to get back. Archie's going to be by Baker Street soon."

* * *

Archie and Sherlock were pouring over crime scene photos. Sherlock was explaining, in gruesome detail, exactly what happened to each body and why. Some part of Rose thought the maybe, just maybe, she shouldn't be letting him show an eight year-old murder victims. The part that was just as interested as Archie told her more sensible part to shut up.

Her watch beeped, interrupting Sherlock's diatribe on the idiocy of some murderers believing that dissolving their victims in acid erases all evidence. "Time's up. Archie's mom will be back in five minutes."

"OK, Archie." Sherlock looked down at the soon-to-be-ring-bearer. "Are we agreed? Cute smiles and you have to wear the suit."

The little boy looked up at the detective petulantly. "No."

Rose rolled her eyes. "Come here, Archie."

"No."

"Here. Now. Or I'll take a switch to your backside and deal with your mother later." Pouting, Archie came to stand in front of her. "Here's how this is going to work. You're going to walk down that aisle, carefully carrying the pillow, _in the suit_, and smiling like the angelic little cherub they all expect you to be. If you do that, and behave through the entire ordeal, including the reception, Sherlock here will get you a whole file of beheadings. Won't you, Mr. Holmes?"

"Of course." Sherlock agreed promptly, a small smile twitching at his lips.

Archie's eyes lit up. "Cool."

"Do we have a deal, munchkin?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good boy." Rose patted his head just as his mother popped her head in. "Go on then. Off with your mom."

"Did you get it all sorted then?" Archie's mother asked, stepping into 221B.

Sherlock stood by the windows, hand folded behind his back. "I believe we have reached an understanding. Haven't we, Archie?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes." Archie ran up to Sherlock, hugging his waist, before darting back to his mom.

Rose noticed the questions flashing across the woman's face and quickly hoarded her out the door. Utilizing years of practice at speeding along chatty mourners, she even managed to spew polite niceties while slamming the door in their face.

"I should hire you to deal with clients." Sherlock commented drily, still standing by the windows. "They seem to be more tedious than ever without John around."

"What are you talking about?" She asked, settling back on the couch. "John is still around, with Mary, might I add, who you absolutely adore."

"Yes, but he doesn't live here anymore. It's not the same. And he has a proper position at the clinic, so I can't drag him away for a case whenever I please. It also means I must deal with the majority of clients on my own. They're ever so boring."

"Start scheduling them to come in after John's clinic hours then."

He waved the suggestion away. "John has another life he must lead, as much as it pains me to admit it."

"Everyone leads multiple lives, Sherlock. I lead the life of a friend, girlfriend, daughter, and funeral director. John leads the life of a friend, fiancé, doctor, blogger, and detective. Greg leads the life of a friend, boyfriend, father, and cop. We are the sum of all our parts, even you."

"Me?"

"Yes. You. You are a consulting detective. You are also a friend to many people, a brother, and a son." Rose flipped open her book, finding the place she left off. "The trick is focusing on the whole of someone, not a single part. When you do that, things become easier and balance becomes possible."

Sherlock stared at her for a minute, more deductions flashing across his face. She gave him warning glance and he kept his mouth shut. Instead, he settled back into his chair. "Tell me, Rose Creekwood, do you realize that you had me promise to give a young child photos of dismembered corpses?"

"Yep."

"You're not worried he'll grow to become a serial killer?"

"Nah." She flipped to _The Tell-Tale Heart_. "I'm pretty sure he'll grow up to become you. You might want to prepare yourself. The flower girls are next."

* * *

_**Please read and review.**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Thank you to everyone who has favorited and followed this story. And major thank-yous to both **__**Princely Archer**__** and **__**willzzz2000**__** as the first person to review or follow this story, respectively. If either of you have a special story request, private message me and I'll see what I can do to make it happen.**_

_**Princely Archer:**__** Thank you so much for the review. You're right, there is an amazing sense of accomplishment that comes with each review. Don't label yourself as failed just yet. If you love to write then I'm sure you'll try again. I'm glad you like the story thus far.**_

_**Author's Note:**__** There's not exactly anything graphic in this chapter, nothing that isn't shown in way more detail in rated R movies, but there's enough to get the point across and make the more imaginative blush. Just warning you.**_

* * *

"Are you sure you won't come?" Greg asked, straightening his tie. Rose shook her head, lacing up her running shoes.

She'd agreed to housesit in Greg's small apartment near Scotland Yard while he was at the wedding for the weekend. It was cozy, comfortable and definitely a bachelor pad. Despite the lack of furniture and abundance of dirty underwear, socks, and empty beer bottles that littered the place (something she intended to fix while she was here), it had a beautiful view of the nearby park and a large, mostly unused kitchen that was going to be filled to bursting with baked goods by the end of the day.

"It won't be terrible after all. Just a bit of mingling. And Mrs. Hudson will be there."

He'd been trying to convince her to change her mind for the last half hour, and her answer was staying the same. It's not that she didn't like John and Mary. They seemed nice enough. She just wasn't adept at dealing with people. There were rehearsed speeches and platitudes she could use on mourners. What was she supposed to say when she froze while congratulating the happy couple? With her luck ,she'd revert to the old tried and true "My condolences." That would go over well.

"You won't have to say anything. Just smile and nod and keep me from murdering Molly." He knelt in front of her, trying to charm out an acceptance. "There will be dancing. And alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. Remember how much fun we had the last time you got pissed?"

"I puked on your ex-wife."

"Yeah." A glazed look came over his face. "That was brilliant. Maybe this time you can vomit on Sherlock."

Rose laughed, giving him a quick kiss. "You're still irritated that you had to bail them out after their stag night, that's all." She stood up, checking to make sure her sports bras had everything nice and bound. She was naturally heavy set, but she worked hard to keep the pounds off by running and daily yoga. Unfortunately, she was rather blessed in the chest department and it meant that she had to use ace wrap and multiple sports bras to keep from hitting herself in the eye while she was exercising. "You'll be fine. I'm going to go for a run; you're going to go to this wedding. Tomorrow you'll come home to a house full of cookies and pies with a roaring hangover and, since I've got Brandon manning the parlour this weekend, I'll spend the day nursing you back to health. We'll have fantastic post-wedding/separation sex and, by Monday, you won't care that I didn't witness the wedding vows of John Hamish Watson and Mary Elizabeth Morstan."

"And what if I find someone else to have my post-wedding sex with?" Greg grabbed her hips, pulling her close to kiss along her stomach.

She grinned, running a hand through his hair. "Nah. You love me too much."

"I thought you loved me."

"I'm pretty sure it's a mutual love."

He laughed, getting to his feet. "I'll miss you." He murmured, nipping at her neck. "I'll truly, honestly miss you."

Rose closed her eyes, looping her arms around his neck to play with the short hairs brushing his collar. "It's only one night, Greg. We spend the night away from each other all the time."

"Because of work. This time we actually could spend the night together, without interruptions, and you're going running instead."

"I like running."

"You hate running."

"I like the adrenaline high afterwards."

Greg sighed and she could feel the argument brewing. They didn't have time for this. "I'll make you a deal. If you get there, and Molly proves to be too much or something else happens, I'll head your way immediately, OK? Right now, you need to get on the road or you'll be late."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise." She walked him out the door and took her keys off the hook to lock up. "One phone call, and I'll come running."

* * *

Rose hummed, bouncing along to the music as she pulled a tray of cookies from the oven and set them on the cooling rack. Greg may not have much in the way of furniture, but she'd brought over a complete set of bakeware months ago and he had an amazing sound system. At least once a week she came over and made the snickerdoodles he liked with his morning coffee and they had a nice dinner together. Sometimes he was on a case and they didn't actually eat that dinner until two in the morning, but they still ate together.

Her phone vibrated on the counter, and she answered the call hesitantly. It was Greg's work number. It made her wonder if something had happened to him at the wedding. If there was ever a wedding where someone could die, it was a wedding involving Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. "Rose here."

"There you are! I tried calling the house phone. Why didn't you pick up?"

She breathed a sigh of relief. It was Greg. He was ok. "I have the music on. It must be loud enough that I didn't hear it ring."

"Turn it down. I'm at work, and, as soon as I finish the paperwork on this bastard who tried to murder someone at John's wedding, I'm going to come pick you up. You're going to be ready to go, in that purple dress with the brown lace-up thing that you left in the back of my closet, and we're going back to that wedding. We're going to dance. We're going to drink. I'm going to pay for an extra night at that hotel and we're throwing our phones out the window because we're taking this weekend for us, and if anyone tries to interrupt, I'll personally shoot them."

Rose pulled the phone away from her ear, blinking at it. Greg must already be drunk. That was the only explanation. "What? Start from the beginning, baby, and fill me in one what's happening."

She heard him sigh and the sound of a keyboard clacking in the background confirmed that, yes, he was actually at work. "One of John's guests is more hated than Sherlock. The wedding photographer tried to kill the guest and one of the Royal Guard. I'm adding him to the system now. My buzz is gone. I had to chase this bastard halfway back to London, then drive him all the way back to the hotel, just to have Sherlock tell me that he was our killer and that I needed to arrest him and bring him back to London. I'm tired, I'm cranky, and I'm missing a wedding. And I love weddings.

"What I don't love is weddings without my girlfriend. So put on that dress, do something with all those pots of paint littering my bathroom that somehow makes you more beautiful than usual, and pack a bag, because we're spending the weekend in the country and if anyone tries to interrupt us, I'll shoot them. Damn the consequences."

"Is that an order, Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Rose teased, her heartbeat slowing. He wasn't drunk. He was just irritated. And she had promised to come to the wedding if things proved to be too much for him.

"Yes."

"Ok." She set the cookie sheet in the fridge and set to packing up the baked good that were already finished. She could give them to Mrs. Hudson and the landlady would make sure they were eaten by Monday. "I'll wear the dress. I'll even pack a bag. But you have to do something for me."

"What, Rosie?"

"Bring your handcuffs."

Greg laughed, some of the exhaustion already lifting from his voice. "Naughty child."

"You love it."

* * *

One of the bridesmaids pulled Greg away to dance. Rose grinned, waving them off. The look of stricken horror on his face was priceless. It wasn't bad, for a wedding, even with Sherlock's little slip-up about Mary's pregnancy. Who he thought he was kidding with that poor cover was beyond her, but she wasn't going to say anything. They could announce it properly in their own time.

Sherlock brushed by her toward another bridesmaid who was dancing with someone she vaguely recognized from IT department at Bart's. The pleased smile on his face fell as the bridesmaid motioned toward the gentleman she was dancing with, mouthing a thank you. Rose checked over to see Greg desperately trying to twist away from the handsy bridesmaid he'd been saddled with and took off after Sherlock. "Hey!"

Sherlock turned, a brief flash of relief in his eyes sealing the idea that she'd done the right thing. "Ms. Creekwood. Shouldn't you be dancing with Geoff?"

"Greg."

"Whatever. I believe one of the more amorous bridesmaids has marked him as a potential bed partner."

"He'll fight her off." Rose stepped up, turning Sherlock's head to face her. He'd been pointedly looking anywhere else. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing at all."

"Liar." A beautiful violin solo, a recording of Sherlock's own playing, floated out of the ballroom. She took a step back and made a low curtsy. "Tell me the truth while we dance."

Sherlock grinned, and the two stepped into the waltz position. Rose let him lead, desperately trying to remember the proper footwork. It had been years since she last danced. After a few moments, she got the hang of it. "So what's wrong, Sherlock? And don't tell me 'nothing' because we both know that's a lie." He stayed silent. Rose cocked her head to the side. "Does this have something to do with Mary being pregnant?"

A grimace twisted his mouth. "I take it I didn't hide that very well, did I?"

"Well, if what Greg said about your best man speech is anywhere near true, I'm sure most people just thought you were still nervous about speaking in front of large groups of people. But not from us, no." She stumbled a bit, and he tightened his hand on her waist to keep her from falling. "Is that why you're running out of here?"

"John has truly entered a new chapter of his life. He has no use for me any longer."

Rose tsked. "For someone so brilliant, you are an idiot."

"Pardon me?"

"You are John's best friend." She pointed out, catching a glimpse of Greg searching for her in the ballroom. "Do you really think that will change just because he's married with a child on the way?"

Sherlock looked down on her disparagingly. "Of course it will."

"Of course it won't." She corrected. "He'll change, just as you have, and your relationship will change, just as it already has and will continue to do, but you'll still be his best friend. Besides, Mary loves you just as much as John does, if not more. Who do you think they'll ask to be that child's godfather?"

He tripped, and they both nearly fell. "Godfather?"

"Yeah. You'll be the favorite Uncle Sherlock who brings wildly inappropriate presents to every birthday and Christmas and tells tactless stories about dismemberment and murder at the dinner table. It will adore you."

"You think so?"

"I know so. Look how quickly Archie took to you. You are single-handedly inspiring the next generation of Scotland Yard's finest detectives."

"That's a terrifying thought. They're all idiots."

"Sweetheart, compared to you, Einstein was an idiot. This will just be a higher-class of idiots." She noticed Greg glaring at them from the doorway and gave him a reassuring smile. "Sherlock, life moves on all around us, all the time. People change. Societies progress. We have to change with it or we get left behind." Rose stepped back, dipping into a curtsy once again. "Go now, if you have to. I know you're not a fan of large crowds of people. But don't let yourself be alone. Don't be the man who always leaves a wedding alone."

He bowed stiffly, nodding at Greg. "Why do you care, Rose?"

She shrugged, watching her boyfriend stalk toward them. "Because you're a good man, Sherlock. A maddening, infuriating, annoying, man, but a good man nonetheless. It's painful to see someone with such a good heart always by himself. The world needs to treat people like you better than it does."

Greg wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing a kiss to her temple. Sherlock watched them for a moment, a grin spreading across his face. "I see now, why Lestrade likes you. At first I thought it was the size of your breasts."

"Sherlock!"

"That's obviously not true, now, Lestrade. I meant at first." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Enjoy the rest of your evening." He grabbed his coat from the rack near the door. "Don't leave her alone anymore, Greg. She looks gorgeous tonight, and there are several men here who would be glad to pay her attention if you find yourself too distracted."

Rose chuckled, leaning her head against her boyfriend's chest as they watched him go. The door slammed behind the detective before Greg spoke. "He got my name right."

"I think he's starting to appreciate you, honey."

He smiled, pulling her back to the ballroom. "He appreciates you, and that's his way of showing it." Greg pulled her in his arms, leading them both into the crowd. "And, as always, he was right."

"About what?"

"You're gorgeous tonight."

Rose blushed, pulling him down for a kiss. She never expected to find this with someone else. She'd seen it before, in some of the foster families she'd been placed with and a few of the couples that lived near her parents, but it was something she'd never believed she'd find herself. It somehow always seemed out of her grasp. Greg proved her wrong. "You're not so bad yourself, hot stuff." She joked, trying to relieve the sickly sweet feelings churning in her stomach. "Have I ever mentioned how much I love you in a suit?"

Greg scowled, shaking his head. "Don't do that tonight, Rosie?"

"Do what?"

"Push off serious emotions by making a joke." He threaded a hand through her hair, watching the blond strands slip through his fingers. "I normally don't mind, but I want honesty tonight. I want you to tell me exactly how you feel, when you feel it. I want the complete unabashed truth from you."

"The truth?"

"Yes."

She smiled, letting those sickly sweet emotions push to the surface. "The truth is, I love you, and it's so far beyond the initial heady rush that people confuse with love that is frightens me. I don't look at you and feel this need to be with you every moment of everyday and growl at any woman that so much looks in your general direction. I look at you and feel peace and contentment and trust. It feels like we're right where we need to be, exactly when we need to be there, there's such a sense of serenity that comes with that knowledge that not even the fact that there's a bridesmaid currently glaring daggers at my back or Molly and Mrs. Hudson taking bets as to when our own wedding will be can ruin it. You're tranquility and strength all wrapped up in this perfect package of empathy, intelligence, and responsibility and can I quit being honest now because I'm making myself nauseous by saying all this out loud."

He blinked down at her, a soft smile spreading across his face. "Oh."

"Oh? I just poured my heart out and all you can say is 'oh'? See if I'm honest again."

"I don't think I'll need you to be." He started moving them out of the ballroom. "I do think I need to get you to our room, now, because I'm terrible with words and I need to show you exactly how much that meant to me."

* * *

Rose groaned, arching up under Greg's mouth as he worked his way down her body. True to his word, he'd brought his handcuffs. They were being used to trap her hands against the headboard and were slowly driving her insane because all she wanted to do was grab his head and drag him back up to her lips.

"Still glad I brought the handcuffs?" He asked, biting just under her navel.

She glowered down at him. "You're an evil man."

"You asked for them!"

"And you knew exactly what would happen!"

An impish grin spread across his face. "That's beside that point." He murmured, kissing the inside of her thigh. "It's about to get worse."

He drew his tongue along her most sensitive area and she gasped. The handcuffs rattled as she fought to free herself. Greg continued, ignoring her little whimpers and her pleading for him to please, _please_, unlock the metal cuffs.

Distantly, she heard the doorknob rattle and turned to look. Sherlock strode in, acting completely oblivious to what he'd just interrupted. Rose stiffened, trying to warn Greg about their audience. Unfortunately, right as Sherlock's name slipped past her lips, Greg decided to stab at that little button that made her see stars, and it came out as more of a moan than a warning.

He jerked his head up from under the covers. "What did you just call me?"

Rose blushed, her entire body turning red. "I wasn't calling you anything. I was trying to let you know that we're not alone and you did that thing with your tongue at the same time."

"What?" She awkwardly turned her hand in the cuffs, pointing toward the door. Greg peeked out enough to see their visitor. "Oh for God's sake! Can't you see that we're busy, Sherlock?"

"If you need help locating the g-spot, most anatomical diagrams suggest that it's-"

"No!" Rose wiggled, glaring down at Greg. Her breasts and most of her upper torso were still on display, and she'd prefer to have them covered. "Just no, Sherlock. He doesn't need the help. For goodness sake, Greg! Let me out of the cuffs!"

"No." Greg pouted, settling beside her and pulling the blankets up enough to cover her chest. "As soon as Sherlock leaves, we're going right back to what we were doing."

"I'm no longer in the mood and he doesn't need to know that." This was the last time she suggested bondage. Glaring, she glanced over at the intruder. "What's going on, Sherlock?"

"I simply wished to tell you that I considered what you said and that it proved to be comforting." Sherlock dead-panned, looking over the room. "Thank you."

Greg groaned laying his head against his knees, and Rose shot him a threatening frown. "You're welcome, Sherlock, but perhaps we could be alone now?"

"Oh yes, of course." The detective opened the door, right in the view of the passing Mrs. Hudson and her date. Rose felt her blush deepen. "Enjoy your night. I'll see you Monday, Rose, hopefully with considerably more clothes on."

"Good night, Sherlock." Rose gritted out, giving the shell-shocked Mrs. Hudson an apologetic smile.

"Good night."

He closed the door behind him. Greg got up from the bed and locked the door, sliding home the chain and stuffing a chair under the knob for good measure. "I can't believe he just walked in like that!"

Rose grimaced. "I can."

He sighed, sitting on the bed next to her. "So can I." Greg looked over, smirking at the hot blush that still covered every exposed area of skin. "Though I could get used to you flustered. It's adorable."

"Bite me."

"Later." He pulled the covers down, leering at her still naked body. "For right now, I have some unfinished business."

* * *

**_Please read and review._**


	6. Chapter 6

"Good evening, Ms. Creekwood."

Rose screamed, dropping her groceries as she saw the stranger sitting on her couch. A middle-aged man, sharply dressed in a pressed suit, with a receding hair line and smug eyes stared at her, an arrogant smile in place. "Who are you?" She croaked, edging toward the kitchen. The skillet was in its normal place on the wall. She'd used it to battle one intruder. It would work on another. "How did you get into my house?"

"Please don't. As amusing as it would be to explain why I'm in the hospital with a concussion, I'm quite sure Detective Inspector Lestrade would frown on having to talk yet another person of charging you with assault."

"I'm pretty sure I can't be charged with assault for fending off a burglar."

"I'm positive that I can throw you in prison for the rest of your natural life simply for walking down the street."

Rose immediately relaxed. "Oh. You must be Mycroft. It's nice to meet you." She stepped into the kitchen. "May I get you some coffee? I also have some iced tea that Sherlock is fond of."

"No thank you." Mycroft got to his feet, brushing off his pants. "I'm here to talk to you about my brother, actually."

She leaned against the counter, watching him warily. Honestly, she'd expected this visit long ago. Greg had warned her, just after Sherlock came back, that Mycroft would probably try to bribe her into spying on his brother for him. "Is Sherlock alright?"

"That's what I'd like to ask you." He stood at attention in her kitchen, blocking her way into the living room. "You seem to see him more than anyone, as of late, even John Watson."

"John is a newlywed and I'm Sherlock's neighbour. It's to be expected."

"And yet, it's not." He circled her. "Sherlock is not known for making social calls. He is not known for having friends."

"Bullshit." Satisfaction spread across her face when Mycroft jerked back as if she'd physically struck him with the expletive. "Sherlock might have been a loner at one point in time, but look at him now. John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly; all his friends. He is surrounded by friends, by people who love him. That he's came out of his shell enough to include one more into that ever-growing circle shouldn't shock anyone, least of all you."

"And are you part of that circle?"

"I'd like to think so."

"Why?" Mycroft resumed circling her. "I've been monitoring your interactions for some time. You don't pander to his ego. You provide no necessary function in his work. You do not pamper him. Why have you been added to that circle?"

"Because I don't do any of that." Rose stood tall under the scrutiny. "Sherlock has grown. He's gotten older and matured. I've seen him do that just in the short time he's been back on Baker Street. When people mature, they seek balance."

"And that's what you are? Balance?"

"Yes." She stepped around him, turning on the coffee maker. "John is the one who simultaneously panders to his ego and reminds him how to behave around the general populace, as does Mary. Greg and Molly are the necessary liaisons for his work, but they also see past the cold, calculating exterior he presents and love him for what they find. Mrs. Hudson is the one who pampers and mothers him." She pulled down a mug, dropping a couple scoops of sugar in. "I don't do any of that. I treat him like any other person I run across. I don't exclaim over his brilliance or stop him from being a total ass to others. I can't help in his work, and, while I respect the man he is behind his genius, it's not the reason I care for him. I offer him something to eat or drink when he's in my home, but I don't go out of my way to provide things he likes. If there's nothing here that he wants, he goes without.

"I am balance because, as far as I'm concerned, he's not the great Sherlock Holmes. He's just Sherlock, the socially awkward, completely adorable, slightly troubled, and, at his core, insecure little boy who needs someone to believe that he's special." She slammed the brewer off, impatiently waiting for it to quit dripping. "And that's exactly how I treat him."

"You don't believe he's special?" Mycroft, pulled a mug out from up above her, inching it towards the sugar canister. "His IQ is in the stratosphere, second only to mine."

Rose rolled her eyes, spooning a bit of sugar in his mug and filling it with coffee. Without asking, he rummaged in her fridge and pulled out a container of creamer. He arched his eyebrow, glancing from her to the creamer. "Really, Ms. Creekwood. Peppermint mocha?"

"You live under the same rules as Sherlock. If you don't like it, you go without."

"So I'm not special either?"

"Everyone is special, and, by default, no one is special." She took the creamer from him, pouring a large dollop in her coffee. "It's not a matter of recognizing someone's unique skills. It's a matter of consciously choosing to see them as more than their talents."

Mycroft grinned, pouring his own creamer. "That is a unique perspective, Ms. Creekwood."

"You broke into my house and are drinking my coffee, and my creamer. I think you can call me Rose. Or Rosie. Whichever you prefer." She took a sip of her coffee, smiling happy at the scent on mint and chocolate floating up at through the steam. "And I can't take credit for that perspective. My father taught me to think that way."

"Which one?"

It didn't surprise her that he knew she had two fathers. From what Greg had told her about the man, Mycroft probably knew every dirty secret she'd tried to shed once she started her new life with Daddy and Pop. "The one still in the States."

"A Mr. Ronald Creekwood, I believe. A journalist in Boston, Massachusetts." Mycroft rattled off dispassionately.

Rose giggled, unable to stop herself. "Sorry." She said, in reference to his offended expression. "But you're not intimidating me. I made peace with my past a long time ago. These little references to what you know about me are no more significant than telling me you know where I work or what color my drapes are."

"Even your extracurricular activities before you were placed with your parents?"

"Those are over a decade behind me." She pointed out. "I'm a different person with a different mindset and a different life."

"No relapses?"

"Not once since Daddy and Pop took me in."

Mycroft nodded. "Good. Then we have nothing more to discuss. Unless, of course, you would like to have dinner with me."

Rose sputtered. "Excuse me?"

"I have no romantic interest in you, if that's what you fear. I'm well aware of your relationship with Gregory Lestrade. You simply seem different than most of the goldfish that swim around my brother."

"Goldfish?"

"That was probably rude, wasn't it?"

"Extremely."

"I apologize."

Rose shook her head. Her life had been normal. It had been calm. Now the power behind the British government was asking her out to dinner. "Sit down, Mycroft. I'm making steak and salad for supper. We can eat here."

"Will my brother be joining us?"

"No. He has a date, and Greg is working late." She grinned, walking out to gather up her fallen groceries. "It's me, you, and a slaughtered cow. Interested?"

Mycroft sat at her tiny dining table, shaking his head. "I like my steak rare."

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	7. Chapter 7

Someone was trying to break into her apartment… again. Rose was getting really tired of this. She'd gotten used to Sherlock's unannounced visits. Even Mycroft walking in whenever it pleased him stopped worrying her. True, the brothers' bickering if they happened to visit at the same time gave her a headache, and Greg's constant, mumbling commentary while they were all there was just this side of frustrating, but she'd learned to deal with it. She forced herself to remember that it was all part and parcel of living at Baker Street.

Right now, however, it was three in the morning and she had two funerals to oversee tomorrow. One of her deceased customers was a former cop who seemed to be friends with the whole city and she needed her wits to keep an eye on the overload of people who were going to be there for the viewing. To keep her wits she needed her sleep and to get her sleep she needed people to stop trying to break into her apartment.

Growling with frustration, Rose threw off her covers and stalked to the door. She'd started sliding in the chain whenever she didn't want to be bothered, so even if whoever was clumsily fumbling with her dead-bolt somehow managed to get past that, they were stuck in the hallway or would have to resort to breaking down the door. If they did the latter, she'd bash them with the frying pan and call Greg, damn the consequences.

She stood on her tip-toes and peered through the peephole. Whoever it was had crouched low enough that she couldn't see them. After a few minutes of debate, the rattling lock acting as background music to her tedious inner monologue of "Should I or shouldn't I?", Rose jerked open the door.

A rumpled Sherlock tumbled in. Smiling up at her deliriously, she saw his pupils blown wide enough to suck in all the light of the sun. The only thing that remained of his blue-grey eyes was a slender ring surrounding gaping, black holes. "Good evening, Rosie." He slurred. "May I have some tea?"

"Good lord, Sherlock. What have you done to yourself?" She helped him stand and the two wobbled to the kitchen. "Sit here. You need coffee. Not tea."

"Two sugars please."

"I know, Sherlock." She started the machine and pulled two mugs out of the cabinet. It's not like she'd be going back to sleep tonight. "You look like shit."

"And you're very rude." Sherlock was still smiling, though he seemed a little less manic under her kitchen's harsh fluorescent lights.

Rose grabbed a few cookies from the Tupperware on her counter and set them on a plate, pushing them in front of the drugged-out detective. "Did you snort it or shoot it?"

"Excuse me?"

"Don't even begin to pretend you don't understand what I'm asking, Sherlock Holmes. You've tried to break into my flat, in the middle of the night, while you're high a fucking kite. You owe me some honesty." She slammed her hand on the table, glaring daggers down at the other man. "Now, did you snort it or shoot it?"

Wordlessly, he rolled up his sleeve. She squeezed her eyes closed, turning away from the site of the track marks, old and new, marring his skin. "If it helps anything," he murmured softly, "it's for a case."

"It doesn't help." Hesitantly, she reached out to run her fingers over the punctures. "Why would you do this, Sherlock? It's more than a case. Some of these are years old."

"How do you know?"

She pushed up the sleeves of her pajama top. Long scars ran the length of her forearms, from elbow to tip. "It wasn't a suicide attempt. What you can't see under the scars are the track marks."

"You had a drug habit."

"Years ago, before Daddy and Pop took me in."

"You were twelve!"

"I was fifteen." She corrected. "It took me three years to get from Louisiana to Boston. I floated from town to town with Bubba, which is his actual name, by the way, not a term of affection." She bit her lips, running her hand over the raised skin. "I was usually so high I didn't know or care where I was. So was he. We were selling ourselves when we got busted. I got a charge for child prostitution, but Pop was in the precinct when they dragged us in. He and Daddy had just been approved as foster parents. He convinced the arresting officer to drop the charges and let us go, and we went to live them. I managed to pull myself out of it, but Bubba was too deep in the drug's hold and he ran away. Pop couldn't save him a second time. He kept floating until he got busted again, New York, I think, and the night Daddy told me, I looked at the marks on my arms, and I was just so ashamed. So I tried to make them go away. It took weeks of talking to the therapist to make them understand that. I wasn't trying to make my life go away, I wanted my past and what I'd done and who I'd been to go away. My life just ended up in danger because of it."

He grabbed her arm, turning it over in his hand. "It's a miracle you didn't die." He whispered, tracing along the pale line. "These were deep, and fatal."

"If Daddy hadn't been so worried about me, and came to check when he did, I would have died." Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered waking up in the hospital bed, her fathers' frightened and tortured faces hanging over her. "People think I'm being metaphoric when I say they saved me. Even you did, but it's the literal truth. They saved me from the drugs and the whoring myself out for a fix, and then they saved my life. They never gave up on me." She pulled back, shakily walking to the counter to finish making their coffee. "How did you get started?"

"Desperation." He bit into one of the cookies. "I was too young for where I was in school. Despite my intelligence, the ostracism affected me, and I needed an outlet. Obviously I hadn't created the consulting detective work yet, and my deductions only made the social stigma worse, so I sought out something that would dull my senses. Something that would bring me down to their level."

"And you just decided that, instead of marijuana, which would do the same thing with far less danger, heroin was the way to go."

"Heroin leaves no visible trace aside from the physiological effects of intoxication. No scent. No inflamed or ruptured blood vessels in the sclera. And a small vial with a few needles is much easier to hide than a bag, rolling papers, a lighter and an ashtray."

"Logic above all things." Rose poured their coffee and added cream to hers before sitting at the table. "How many times have you quit?"

"Seven."

"When was the first time?"

"Why do you care?"

"Something I learned from being an NA sponsor. Telling your history, getting it out there, makes it easier to quit."

"You were a sponsor for Narcotics Anonymous?"

She grinned, recognizing the attempt to distract her. "I had Daddy and Pop to help me through withdrawal and keep me clean. A lot people don't have a support system at all. It's just paying it forward." She covered his hand with hers. "When was the first time, Sherlock?"

He sighed, twisting his wrist to put his hand on top and tapping along her knuckles. "I was sixteen, in my second year at university, and went on a binge. My high had almost worn off and I was preparing to go home when the den I slummed at was hit by a raid. I was being dragged through the precinct when I noticed crime scene photos taped along a black board. The answer obvious, right there for anyone to see, and I blurted out that I could solve the case.

"Of course, everyone laughed, but Lestrade took me seriously. He listened to what I had to say and they had their killer by morning. He stepped in for me, arranged to have me let go since I'd provided such invaluable assistance, and walked me out. He then proceeded to tell me that I could have a bright future at Scotland Yard, but no one was going to take a junkie seriously. I had a gift, and if I wanted to use that gift, I had to clean up." Sherlock shook his head. "Obviously, I didn't want to work with such incompetent fools, but I did want to be taken seriously. So I had Mycroft lock me in prison, off the record, and detoxed."

"Detox is the worst." She commiserated. "Daddy and Pop had to take me to the hospital a few times."

"I managed to escape that particular hell by hiding in my mind palace."

"Greg never told me that was how you met." She said, almost absently. Sherlock had talked about his mind palace extensively, and even encouraged her to begin building one. But a palace seemed inappropriate to encompass the human mind. A palace had an air of completion, as if nothing more could be added or changed without significant construction. A library seemed more àpropos. A library with half the shelves empty. Instead of looking for the right room, search for the right book, with plenty of space left for the new things you learn every day. "I should have expected something like this, of course. He always said it wasn't his place to tell your past, but he had no problem describing how he met Mrs. Hudson."

"Yes, serving a search warrant for a bogus drugs bust is an excellent way to meet someone."

"You were withholding evidence."

"He didn't know that."

"He was trying to do his job, Sherlock, and, unlike you, there are a variety of rules and regulations he has to abide by if he wants the conviction." Rose nudged his coffee closer to him. "Drink up. The faster you metabolize what's in your system, the faster we can both get to bed. Tell me why you started again."

"This time or after I quit for the first time."

"Any of the times."

"Usually it's boredom. Solving a particularly difficult case gives me a high better than heroin, but, when things are slow, heroin becomes an acceptable substitute." His eyes darted away, over her left shoulder.

She sighed. He was holding something back. "What else, Sherlock?"

"There is nothing else." His eyes darted to the right.

"You know what? If you're going to bullshit me then just drink your coffee and go. I have a very comfortable bed that's screaming for my exhausted body, but I'm ignoring it because I want to help you. I can't do that if you're going to lie to me."

She pushed back from the table, tossing her coffee in the sink. Sherlock grabbed her wrist as she walked by. "I apologize, Rose. I should have realized."

"Realized what? That you interrupted my sleep? That I'd know you were lying to me? Or that I'm worried about you and to have you sit there and avoid telling me the truth is the equivalent of saying that it doesn't matter as long as you get to protect your precious ego?"

"I am not able to fully articulate the reasons behind my drug habit, Rose." He stood up, wobbling slightly. "If I were able, I'd tell you, but I'm not."

She deflated, pulling his arm over his shoulder to help steady him. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's get you upstairs. We can talk about this in the morning."

He blanched, stopping short of the door. "May I stay here, tonight? I have a guest upstairs."

"That horribly perky woman who seems physically unable to call you by your full name?" He nodded, grimacing. "Right. Well, I only have one bed, so we'll have to share."

"You may sleep on the couch."

"This is my flat, sugar. We can share the bed or you can sleep on the couch." They maneuvered themselves down the hall to Rose's small bedroom.

"Won't Lestrade mind?"

"No offence, Sherlock." She settled him on the bed, bending down to yank off his shoes. "But you're not my type. Too young, too skinny, too much ego, and, quite frankly, your brother scares me." She clambered behind him, helping him work off his jacket. "Greg knows that. We've had to discuss that, rather often lately, with you and Mycroft dropping by at odd hours. Do you realize that Greg and I have managed to sleep together, without interruptions, a grand total of six times since you rose from the grave. It's depressing."

Dropping the jacket on her dresser, she crawled into the bed, the wrong side of the bed, and turned to face the wall. "Good night, Sherlock."

"This round of drug use is for a case, Rose." Sherlock mumbled, still on top of the covers.

Rose sighed, sitting up and helping him maneuver himself backwards. "I think you want to believe that, honey." She replied, tugging and twisting to get the blankets out from under him. "I also think there's something deeper going on, and you're not ready to admit it to yourself or anyone else. When you are, I'll be ready to listen." Tucking the covers around him, she dropped a kiss on his forehead and scooted back into her previous position. "Go to sleep, Sherlock. Everything will be better in the morning."

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	8. Chapter 8

_**Thank you to everyone who had read, reviewed, followed, or favorited this story.**_

_**Hope:**__** Here you go, dear. It's only one chapter, but I'm writing this story on the fly. I don't have this story planned out, God save me, so it can be a bit of slow-going between chapters.**_

_**Elricc: **__**I think most people just don't like to review. They're not quite sure what to say, so it's easier to simply follow or favorite to show their appreciation. No matter how it goes, I'm glad for the support. Thank you for the review. Sherlock has always struck me as an aromantic asexual, despite the implications about Irene Adler, and it never seems right to pair him with anyone, even an OC. Lestrade, on the other hand, is the perfect candidate for a stable, loving relationship, especially with someone like Rose.**_

* * *

"Ms. Creekwood, I presume."

Rose sighed. It was pathetic when strangers in your own home became the norm. She dropped her purse on the counter and flipped on the coffee maker. It was going to be a long night. "So which one are you? A lackey for Mycroft? One of Sherlock's clients? Or did Greg send you over to tell me that he was working late?"

"None of the above." The man snapped his fingers and the one of the henchmen that had been standing guard on either side of the couch proceeded to pat her down.

She rammed the heel of her hand into his nose, pleased when she heard the sickening crunch of cartilage. She was exhausted. An emaciated four year-old had been brought in, dead by neglect and starvation. All she wanted was to drink some coffee, finish the three obituaries she needed to turn into the Times, and go to bed. She did not want to deal with egocentric intruders or their bodyguards. Turning cold eyes on the second burly brute, she calmly warned him to stay back. "I'm not carrying any weapons and, if you try to search me, I'll break your nose too."

"Dear me, Ms. Creekwood. Such spunk. Of course, you're from the United States, aren't you? Americans do have so much more spirit than the British."

"You obviously haven't met many of the British." She leaned against the counter. This man gave her chills. His eyes weren't just cold; they were dead. Dead blue pools that gave nothing away. It was disconcerting. "Who are you? Why are you in my apartment, and how do I get rid of you?"

"I am Charles Augustus Magnussen. I am here to talk to you, and I will leave when it suits me. Prepare a mug of coffee, please. Black."

"You can kiss my ass." She wet a towel, tossing it to the glowering henchman who had blood pouring down his face. "You've broken in, set your thugs to search me, and have the nerve to act as if you own the place. Quite frankly, if I made you coffee, I'd lace it with poison."

"Ah, but then you'd go to prison, Ms. Creekwood." Magnussen stood, walking over to stand in front of her, invading her personal space. "Think of all you'd lose. Detective Inspector Lestrade would be heartbroken. Your fathers would fall apart. All those lovely friends that still hold hope that you'll one day return to Boston will be crushed. Who would care for sick and ailing Mr. Holmes in the middle of the night? You've told no one about his renewed drug habit. He'd have to come off his highs all on his own, all because you don't like me."

"I have a feeling most people don't like you, Mr. Magnussen." Rose stood her ground, terror coursing through her veins. There was a slight smirk on his face, as if her defiance amused him. As if it was a pointless gesture. "Leave. Before I call the police."

"The police will not help you. I own the police."

"I can still try."

Magnussen shook his head, treading around her small kitchen. "This flat is much better maintained than the one upstairs. I believe I'll have my future dealing with Mr. Holmes here."

"Like hell you will." Rose picked up the phone, punching in Greg's number as fast as her shaking fingers would allow. She nearly cried with relief when she heard him answer. "Greg. There's a man in my flat. He broke in and he won't leave."

"Are you in danger?" Greg croaked out, and she could hear his office door slamming in the background.

She looked up at Magnussen. He hadn't said or done anything that could be perceived as a threat, but three years of living on the streets had taught her to trust her gut, and her gut said that he was bad news. "I don't know."

"Do you know who it is?"

"He says is name is Charles Magnussen. I think he knows Sherlock."

"I've got units on the way to your house. They'll be there in five minutes, Rosie. Just stay on the phone with me."

"I don't know what to say."

"Tell me what he's doing."

"He's just staring at me. Him and his creepy henchmen. I broke one of their noses, by the way."

"Why'd you do that?"

"Because it's been a hellish day and I came home after being pressed through the wringer at work to find Fish Eyes and the Dynamic Duo in my house. On top of that, they wanted to search me. Thing One grabbed my shoulder; I reacted; his nose is broken."

Greg laughed as a car door slammed and the siren blared to life. "That's my girl. I'll be there soon."

"Hurry."

"Stay on the phone, Rosie."

"I don't know what to say!"

"Just keep telling me what they're doing. If any of them so much as twitch, I want to know about it."

"But they're not twitching. They're just staring. And Fish Eyes is smiling as if this is all some big game."

"But it is a game, Ms. Creekwood." Magnussen interrupted.

Greg heard him. "Put me on speaker, Rosie." She pushed the button, holding the phone out. "This is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Who am I speaking to?"

Magnussen brushed off his collar. "It hardly matters, DI Lestrade. We are leaving, with your precious little girlfriend in far better condition than my security guard. Don't worry. We won't be pressing charges."

Rose scowled. "Pressing charges for what? Defending myself against an intruder in my own home?"

"I told you, Ms. Creekwood. I own the police. And the courts. And the government. I can charge you with murder without a shred of proof and no one will stand against me." Magnussen signaled his two men to follow him. "It has been… interesting, Rose Creekwood. I do hope we meet again."

"If you come near her again, I'll personally toss you in prison for harassment." Greg threatened.

Rose didn't know what to say. She didn't want to threaten him. She didn't want anything to do with him. She just wanted him to leave her, her apartment, and her family and friend's alone. And her family and friends were in danger. There wasn't the slightest doubt in her mind that Magnussen was ruthless enough to drag them into whatever game he thought he was playing.

The door closing behind him and his cronies didn't alleviate her fears. She collapsed into a chair, fighting back the urge to sob. "He left, Greg."

"OK, darling. And you're alright?"

"Physically, yes. Mentally, I'm terrified."

"I'm going to have one of the men on patrol stay with you until I get there. It's going to be fine, Rosie. I won't let anything happen to you."

"Just… just get here, baby. Please."

"I'm on my way."

* * *

Rose was curled up on the kitchen chair, head pressed to her knees, when Greg rushed in. An officer had gotten there less than three minutes after Magnussen left. She'd offered the man something to drink, but he'd declined, choosing to stand near the door instead. It was probably for the best. Her arms and legs were trembling, and she wasn't sure she'd actually be able to get up and move to get him anything anyway.

Silently, she raised her arms up, a quiet plea for comfort, and Greg was right there. He gently pulled her up and held her against his chest, whispering tiny reassurances into her hair. It didn't help.

She couldn't explain it, but there was something about Magnussen that chilled her blood. It was different with Sherlock and Mycroft. Yes, they were cold, but there was still an air of empathy, of humanity, about them. Magnussen seemed dead inside, with no scruples, morals, or redeeming qualities of any kind. A man like that would do anything, without a hint of guilt, to win.

"Call Sherlock and Mycroft." She mumbled, tightening her fingers in his shirt. "Get them here, now. They have some explaining to do, and they're paying for new locks. A lot of them."

"Why?" Greg pulled back slightly, looking down at her. "What happened, Rosie?"

Quickly, she repeated her encounter with Magnussen, emphasizing what he'd said about using her apartment for his future dealings with "Mr. Holmes." She didn't know which Mr. Holmes he was talking about, even if she had a good idea, so both of them were coming over to explain. So help her God, if they tried to give her the run around then she'd smack them with her skillet; assault charges be damned.

Greg made the phone call, thinly veiled rage coating his voice. It sounded like Mycroft tried to give him an argument, because there was a lot of cursing and threats. Sherlock's only request was that John came down with him.

"I don't care if the friggin' Queen is with him just… You know what? Give me the phone." Anger was starting to replace terror. Greg grinned, noticing the snap of temper in her eyes, and handing over the mobile. "Sherlock Holmes, get your ass off your couch and walk down the three measly flights of stairs to my apartment. Now! Your professional life is spilling into my personal life and I want answers."

"Which parts of my professional life?"

"It's safe to assume if there are police in my house and I'm calling you demanding answers, it wasn't your run of the mill, is-my-spouse-cheating kind of client that stopped by. So think, Sherlock. Use that beautiful brain. Who have you pissed off in the last 24 hours that vindictive enough to seek out everyone you know to scare them?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line before Sherlock answered. "I'll be down momentarily."

"Immediately, Sherlock."

"I said-"

"I don't care! Immediately, or I'm telling Mrs. Hudson." Rose clicked off the phone an angry stab, passing it back to Greg. She hated the new phones. Yes, it was nice to basically have a computer in your pocket, but you didn't get the satisfaction of slamming down the receiver, or even just flipping it closed with brutal force, when you were in a snit.

"Did you just threaten to tattle on him to Mrs. Hudson?" Greg asked, snaking his arms around her waist. "Are you five?"

"The only person Sherlock fears more than his mother is Mrs. Hudson. In fact, he may fear Mrs. Hudson more than his mother." She leaned against his chest, trying to hold onto the anger and not slip back into terror. "If I have to revert to kindergarten-style threats to get him to listen, so be it."

He nodded, tightening his arms around her. "I'm sorry, Rosie."

"What for?"

"If I hadn't suggested this place to you, none of this would be happening." He pushed a lock of blond hair back from her forehead, pressing a soft kiss where the strands had been. "You could have found somewhere else, completely safe and quiet, and never have gotten involved with Sherlock Holmes."

She chuckled, standing on tip-toes to kiss his cheek. "You've got to stop carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, baby. This isn't your fault any more than its Sherlock's or mine. This is one individual choosing to target others because he's too much of a coward to face up to what he's really threatened by."

"And you know what he's really threatened by?"

"He's threatened by Sherlock Holmes. Let's face the facts, whatever Magnussen's crime, whatever he has done or will do, whatever he's trying to get away with, if anyone can stop him it's Sherlock."

Greg sighed, laying his cheek across the top of her head. "I thought I was supposed to be your knight-in-shining-armor?"

Rose grinned, huddling against him and listening to his heartbeat. It was racing out of control, just like hers, and the knowledge made her relax a bit. She wasn't overreacting. Something really was wrong. "You'll always be my knight-in-shining-armor. I just don't think knights are very effective against men like Magnussen. For criminals like him, we need Batman, not Lancelot."

"Lancelot was a prick. I want to be Galahad."

Throwing her head back and laughing, she pulled him down for a kiss. "That's you alright." She whispered against his lips. "My wonderful Sir Galahad. Pure and noble."

A soft cough interrupted. Rose swirled her head around to see a stoic Sherlock and blushing John in her doorway. Groaning, she thunked her head against Greg's chest. "Knocking, Sherlock. We've talked about the knocking."

"You asked me to come down."

"I've just had Fish Eyes and a couple thugs break into my home. Even if I invited you, I want you to knock." She slipped under Greg's arm, moving to the fridge to pour Sherlock a glass of iced tea. "Would you like something to drink, Mr. Watson?"

"John, and no thank you." The doctor peered around the living room nervously. It took a moment for her to realize this was the first time he'd ever been down here. She was primarily a bystander in his life. There were lots of tiny threads connecting them, but there had been no reason to really reach out and spend time together.

Rose shrugged, handing Sherlock his glass and hopping up on the counter. Greg came to stand beside her crossing his arms over his chest. The two stared at Sherlock and John like disappointed parents. The detective and doctor shifted uncomfortably from foot-to-foot.

"Do we get to know what this is about?" John finally asked, tired of being inspected like a naughty child.

"We're waiting for the other Mr. Holmes." Greg said stiffly, glowering.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That will make him happy. He was just here."

"How long ago?"

"Twenty minutes."

"Why?" Rose asked, swinging her legs.

Sherlock hedged while John shot him the death glare to end all death glares. Subtly, the detective tapped his arm. Rose narrowed her eyes. "Again?"

"It's for a case."

"Keep telling yourself that." She glared at John. "How far gone was he?"

"You knew?" The doctor exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

She ignored him. "How far gone was he?"

John scowled. "I've seen him worse."

"Please tell me someone's already slapped him."

"Molly. Multiple times."

"Good for her." She turned to frown at Sherlock. "How often are you going to have to do this for this case? Because I've got to warn you, if it's any more than, oh, EVER AGAIN, I'm going to tie you to the bed and force you through detox."

"Rose…" Sherlock began calmly. He stopped when he saw the anger mounting on her face, reminding himself that she'd been threatened by a man even more dangerous than Moriarty today. She probably wasn't in the mood for a logical breakdown of his actions. "I'm sorry."

"You owe apologies to people far more important than me. What about Greg, who's put his reputation on the line to back you when his superiors thought you were a psycho? Or John, who's here with you instead of his pregnant wife because you went on a bender? How about your brother, who isn't joking when he says he worries about you constantly? Yes, he's a dick, but all older siblings are. He'll also be the first to pick up a gun and shoot the first person who hurts you. Mrs. Hudson, who sees you as her own son? Molly, who's so in love with you that she can't have a normal relationship with anyone else? Mrs. Watson, who thinks you and her husband hung the moon? All of these people love you and trusted you and you betrayed them with the excuse of 'for a case!' It's the lowest form deception and agony you could possibly put them through! Apologize to them!"

"I didn't-"

"Think! You didn't think, Sherlock. You're the smartest man I know but you can be so self-centered sometimes!" Rose hated what she was saying. Some part of her knew that she was just lashing out. She was taking all her fear and rage and channeling it at Sherlock, but this also needed to be said. "You are not alone anymore, Sherlock. There are people, all around you, who love and care for you and you're just ignoring them in favor of doing what you feel is best for you! And I know you're not like that! You care about them as well! And don't give me that bullshit about being a sociopath. You're not. You have your own moral code that strays way to the other side of the law sometimes, but you care. You have emotions and feelings and you give a damn! So start giving a damn!"

Sherlock hung his head, visibly ashamed for perhaps the first time in his life. Rose sighed, slipping off the counter and giving the lanky idiot a hug. "I'm not mad at you, Sherlock." She murmured, fighting the urge to laugh as he awkwardly patted her shoulder. "I'm disappointed in you, and I do expect you to apologize to every single person you've hurt by doing this, but I'm not mad, and neither are they."

"Speak for yourself." John piped up, and Rose whacked his arm, earning a chuckle from Sherlock. She looked back at Greg. Her boyfriend had been oddly silent through this encounter. He had his eyes closed and was carefully taking measured breaths.

"Weekly tests, Sherlock." He finally said, reaching out to pull Rose back to him. "And I will stay in the bathroom and watch you piss in the jar to make sure it's actually you. If you do this again, I will never bring you in on another case."

A heavy knock sounded on the door right before Mycroft strode in. "You needed to see me, Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"I needed to see you." Rose said, tapping along Greg's wrist while he squeezed her to the point she could barely breathe. "A man broke into my apartment-

"Flat." Sherlock, Mycroft, John, and Greg all corrected at once, forcing Rose to roll her eyes.

"Flat." She allowed. "A man broke into my flat today with two henchmen, one of which now has a broken nose." She grinned, reliving the gratifying noise Thing One's nose made. "He said his name was Charles Augustus Magnussen. He made references to my family and friends. He mentioned a 'Mr. Holmes.' I'm pretty sure that's you, Sherlock, but it might be you, Mycroft. Whichever one it is, I want answers. I want to know why he targeted me and I want to know what he's done to draw your attention." She narrowed her eyes on Mycroft. "I also want new locks and I want Greg and my father in Swansea protected. I'm pretty sure Pop and my friends in the States will be safe."

"Oi! I'm perfectly capable of protecting myself." Greg protested. Rose scowled over her shoulder, silently letting him know this was a non-negotiable point.

Mycroft nodded, his way of agreeing to her demands, while Sherlock and John flushed with embarrassment. Quickly, John gave her a rundown of Magnussen, his MO, and why he'd likely targeted her. Rose cursed under her breath.

"New locks." She said, pacing away from Greg and around the room. "Protection for Greg and Daddy, and this gets fixed. I don't care how, but make it clear to Fish Eyes that I'm not available for intimidation."

"Why are you intimidated?" Mycroft asked, watching her pace. "Even I wasn't able to accomplish that."

"You have a heart. Magnussen has a gaping black hole that sucks in all human weakness and spits out manipulation."

"Did she just say I have a heart?"

"She obviously doesn't know you that well." Greg joked, ignoring the glare Rose sent him. He laughed, catching her as she circled and drawing her against him. "It will be OK, Rosie." He murmured, kissing her temple. "Go pack a bag. You'll came stay with me until we get this worked out. Until then, we'll protect you."

"I don't want protection, Greg, and I'm not going to let that man drive me out of my home." She pulled away, turning to face Mycroft, Sherlock, and John. "Fix it. If you don't, and he breaks in again, I'll jab a needle full of formaldehyde in his neck and deal with the consequences later."

"I was under the impression funeral homes were no longer allowed to use formaldehyde as a preservative." Sherlock said, grinning. They were all grinning. Apparently the thought of the little Rapunzel look-a-like stabbing someone with a hypodermic was amusing.

Rose laid her head back against Greg's chest. "Shut up, Sherlock."

* * *

**_Please read and review._**


	9. Chapter 9

_**Thank you to everyone who has followed or favorited.**_

_**Hope:**__** I think it's more because Lestrade isn't considered an "interesting" character. He's normal. No grand intelligence. No fussy quirks. No riveting backstory. Unlike Molly, he doesn't have awkward social skills or the relatable, unrequited love things going for him. He's completely, gloriously ordinary, and that's why I think he's fantastic for an OC pairing. I agree with you on Sherlock. I love the character, but, if he were real, I'd probably end up slapping him within the first five minutes. I don't have the patience to deal with huge egos. I'm trying to make her as realistic as possible. She does have a dramatic past, but I hope Rose herself comes across as someone like Lestrade. Totally normal in almost every way. Thank you for the review. I'm glad you like the story so far.**_

* * *

Rose broke away from Mrs. Hudson, waving the woman on towards Sherlock's room while she jogged to catch-up with the woman masquerading as Sherlock's girlfriend. They'd never been properly introduced, nothing more than a courtesy greeting on the stairs, but Rose recognized her on sight. It was hard not to, what with all the newspapers.

"Hey! Janine! Wait up!" She called, sliding into the elevator just before the doors closed. "I need to talk to you."

The brunette was taller than Rose by a good three inches, but Rose had righteous anger on her side. "Here to play the loving girlfriend?"

Janine blinked, a little stunned by Rose's obvious loathing. "Pardon me?"

"I've seen the newspapers. I've heard about the interviews." Rose glowered. "I know they're all bullshit."

"I know you." Janine exclaimed with sudden clarity. "You're the mousy little thing that lives downstairs from Sherl."

"Sherlock." Rose corrected. "His name is Sherlock. He prefers to be called Sherlock. Only attention-seeking floozies would ever actually call him Sherl. It's a pathetic attempt to imply a relationship more intimate than the one you actually enjoyed."

"Who the hell are you to-"

"I'm his friend." Rose interrupted, stepping into Janine's personal space and glaring up. "I'm his friend and I'm warning you the if there's so much as a hint that he's hurt by all the bullshit you're slinging, I'll take it out of your hide."

"For your information, he said we're fine."

"Considering the fact that he's lying in a hospital bed after being shot, yeah, I'd say you and your vindictive little scheme is the least of his worries." Rose sent a death glare to the opening door and the couple that was mistakenly trying to go down with them decided to wait for the next elevator. "It's not the least of mine. If he gets hurt by this, I'll make sure you pay."

A glint of jealousy and fear sparked to life in Janine's eyes, and Rose bit back a satisfied smile. It had been years since she had to guard anyone. It was nice to make empty threats and see terror flash to life in the eyes of people she deemed dangerous to those that she loved. "He fucked me." Janine claimed, obviously mistaking Rose's protective instinct with jealousy. "Several times a day. I lived in that flat for weeks with him, and he had me every chance he got."

"You stayed there four times and he never stayed in the apartment for more than an hour with you." Rose grinned. "Don't try to lie to me. I know the truth. So does Greg, and Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson. We'll keep our mouths shut as long as Sherlock doesn't mind, but the moment you go too far, the moment you decide that fake orgies and kinky sex stories aren't enough to sell to the papers and you need something a little more scintillating, that's the moment you better lock the doors to that cottage in Sussex Gardens and keep a wary eye over your shoulder. That's the moment I start selling my own stories to the paper, and 'Myc', who hates having his name shortened more than Sherlock does, likes me enough that I'll have proof to back up my stories."

Janine was outraged, and the knowledge delighted Rose. It was bad enough that Sherlock had been shot, but to be assaulted by the lies this woman spewed about him every time she left the house was a stab to the gut. This poor excuse for a human being needed to be outraged. She needed to offended, she needed to be scandalized, and she needed to be afraid because, right after whoever shot Sherlock, she was next on Rose's list. "How do you know all that?"

The doors dinged open to the lobby and Rose stepped out, about to head for the stairs. A perfect, vengeful little stretch of the truth came to mind, more of an implication really, but it would be worth it to see the woman's face. "Whose bed do you think he was really in while he was so diligently avoiding you?"

* * *

"You told her what?" Greg laughed, resting his forearms on his knees. Sherlock was safely back in the hospital after sneaking away to do whatever it was he'd done. Neither Rose nor Greg could get a straight answer out of him, but the guilty look on John and Mary's face gave them a good idea that they were somehow involved.

Rose shrugged, tapping out a random melody on Sherlock's wrist. "I told her that we'd stay quiet until she took it too far, then the 'truth', or the version of the truth Mycroft and I created, would come out."

"And what truth is that?"

"That she's a stalker that became obsessed with Sherlock during the wedding and has been hounding him ever since. Complete with police reports and a request for a restraining order." Rose smiled grimly. "She shouldn't have messed with Sherlock."

John shook his head. There was an awkward amount of distance between the doctor and his new wife. It made Rose wonder if they had a fight. "You do realize Sherlock used her to get into Magnussen's office?"

"You do realize I don't really care." Rose continued tapping, pressing back into Greg's hand at the small of her back. "She's not my friend. Sherlock is."

"He's our friend, too." Mary pointed out. "Shouldn't we be helping to threaten her?"

"I'm trusting your husband, my boyfriend, and Mycroft to handle whoever shot him. That's all they need to worry about. Not only is Janine your friend, but you're pregnant and need to be relaxing. Mrs. Hudson is too sweet and Molly's too smitten. That leaves me to deal with the phony girlfriend." Rose pointed out. She didn't mind. It made her feel useful and she'd felt anything but lately. It also helped to push away some of the clawing guilt she'd been feeling ever since she found out Sherlock had been shot in Magnussen's office. If he'd gone there because she demanded he fix it, she'd never forgive herself. That was a conversation she needed to have with him alone, however. John was a constant reminder for Sherlock that he needed to be empathetic when dealing with people on a personal level, and she didn't need empathy. She needed honesty.

Greg pulled her back, covering her hands with his and tucking her head under his chin. "No more tapping, Rosie. You're going to bruise him."

Her hands immediately stilled, and she curled inward, putting distance between herself and the unconscious Sherlock. He was already injured. She was not going to be responsible for adding so much as a scratch. Greg chuckled, and kissed her head. The four sat in silence, watching the steady rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. None of them were going home tonight. Rose had people to cover the funeral parlour and John was his best friend, so they probably wouldn't leave for days. Greg, of course, had to work, and Mary's pregnancy meant that John would send her home soon enough, but for right now they all held vigil.

Watching the drugs pour into Sherlock hurt her almost as much as knowing that someone had willingly put a bullet in him. They were necessary, this time, to stave off the pain and speed healing, but it was going to be so much harder for him to quit once he had a taste for the prescription-grade medicine. That's if he managed to quit at all this time. He'd been through a true trauma. For an addict, that's several ages' worth of excuses not to quit. "I need to keep taking it to make the memories fade." She'd seen it happen a dozen times before.

"What are you thinking, sweetheart?" Greg murmured in ear, low enough that John and Mary couldn't hear them. "I can see you worrying."

"I'm just thinking about how hard this is going to be once he gets out. He's already an addict. Weeks in the hospital, months on painkillers, and then he's just supposed to quit? It won't be possible. He'll need to go into an actual, approved rehab center."

"He won't."

"Then he'll never kick it, not without some amazing willpower and a nanny."

"You could be a nanny."

"I have a job."

"Mrs. Hudson could be a nanny."

Rose thought about it for a moment, and then shook the thought away. Mrs. Hudson spoiled Sherlock too much. She'd never be able to deny him heroin or Dilaudid when the withdrawals hit and he was close to seizing because his body was so dependent on the drug. "No. She loves him too much. She can't make the hard decisions when he gets bad or withstand the verbal assaults." Sighing, Rose spoke up. "John, how did you get him clean the last time he went on a bender?"

"For the first couple days I restrained him and hooked him to a few IVs to help flush his system, and then I kept him busy with cases." John rubbed a hand over his hair. "I'll probably have to do it again, once he's healed."

Rose nodded, closing her eyes. John could handle this without interference from her. He was Sherlock's best friend and he had experience. She didn't need to be involved. Greg tsked, pulling her to her feet. "Come on, Rosie. Let's go get everyone a coffee. It's going to be a long night."

* * *

"Rose?"

Blearily, Rose blinked her eyes opened, looking into a familiar pair of blue-grey eyes. That was odd. Greg's eyes were brown. Whose eyes was she waking up to? She stretched, arching her back and looking around. She was in a hospital room.

The memories slipped into place. She was in a hospital room! She was in _Sherlock's _hospital room. He'd been shot, and then he escaped the hospital only to nearly die from internal bleeding because of his stunt. She'd been here for three days, waiting for him to wake back up. "Oh thank god."

"Rose, you are aware that chair stretches out into a cot, correct? You did not need to sleep hunched over with my bed rail as a pillow."

She grinned, bending backwards to relax the muscles in her back. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. It just kind of happened."

"You look like hell." He muttered, running his thumb over a red imprint on her temple. "When was the last time you went home?"

"The last time you were there." She batted his hand away, picking up a nearby cup of water and bringing it up to his lips. "Drink now, lecture me later. I've been fine. Lots of coffee and your bathroom has a shower, so I've been able to keep clean. I just didn't want you to wake up alone."

Obediently, Sherlock sipped from the straw, studying her carefully. There were deep circles under eyes and she wasn't wearing any make-up, not even her usual mascara. Her hair was shiny and scrubbed, but pulled back in a sloppy ponytail and her clothes were old and baggy, obviously more for comfort than appearance. It was a relief to see her like this, to see anyone like this. It meant that she was there for him, not publicity. Lestrade really had chosen well. Rose was much better than the serial adulterer he'd married the first time around. "Where are John and Mary?"

"They went home last night to get some rest. We're supposed to trade-off tonight since Greg is worried about me spending so much time up here." She checked her watch, almost nine in the morning. "John should be here soon; he comes by on his breaks from the clinic."

"Who is running your business?"

"It's summer. I have Stella on the desk and Brandon handling the clients. Greg stops by after work and picks up the paperwork I need to fill out." She pressed the straw against his lips insistently. "We have the rest of our lives covered, Sherlock. Don't worry about that. Just focus on getting better."

"When John arrives, I'll need to be alone with him."

"Of course." She tried not to let the easy dismissal bother her. John was his best friend. She was the neighbour. "Before that, I need to know why you went to Magnussen's office."

Sherlock stared at her, easily reading the guilt on her face. "For the case, Rose. The same case that I started using for."

She breathed out a sigh of relief. He was telling the truth. No darting eyes. No change in inflection. "Right. I really think you should drop this case."

"As long as Magnussen is still out there, I can't."

John tapped on the door, smiling when he saw Sherlock was awake. Reluctantly, Rose set the cup down. She couldn't lecture him or try to talk him out of it now. It wasn't her place. John's month away had spoiled her. It let her forget who she was and what her place in Sherlock's life was. She couldn't make that mistake again. "Be careful, Sherlock. Please?"

He patted her hand. "Don't let this bother you. Go find something to eat, Rose. I need to speak with John."

She gave him a sad smile, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. He still had a fever. She'd need to talk to the nurses about his medication. "Yes, sir."

John patted her shoulder as she passed. "I'll keep after him, Rosie."

"If the nurse comes in while I'm gone, ask her about his temperature. It's still a little high."

"Absolutely. I'll check after his blood pressure as well."

"Thank you."

"Rosie." He stopped her, stepping just outside the room. "Look, I know we've all been a little wrapped up in Sherlock lately, but thank you. It can't be easy to have been stuck up here while we all trotted in and out."

"I wasn't stuck. I chose to stay, and I'd do it again." She said stiffly. "He's waiting to talk to you, John. You know how impatient he gets."

"Do you love him?"

Rose stopped short, staring up at the doctor in shock. Greg was up here with her every moment that he wasn't at work and they were more affectionate than John and Mary! "No. Not like you mean."

"You just haven't been around long, but you're very attached, and-"

"And nothing, Dr. Watson! Sherlock is my friend and neighbour. I had the ability to delegate many of my responsibilities because I'm the boss where I work and it made it possible to stay here full-time. Since I was the only one with that luxury, I used it." She crossed her arms, tapping her foot impatiently. "More to the point, not every person who meets Sherlock Holmes either loves or hates him. Some of us are more than capable of simply caring for him, as friends often care for each other, and never have it progress to something more. Especially not when we have romantic interests elsewhere."

"So you and Greg-"

"Are solid. We have to be. I have a sociopath that lives upstairs from me and said sociopath's brother thinks I'm an interesting goldfish. They're not much for timing or personal space, so we talked everything out and came to an understanding. Namely, since I know you're going to ask, that, no matter how many hours I work or who sneaks into my flat whenever they feel like it, he is the only person I love. I can't think of a time when that will change, and as long as it doesn't, then we have complete trust in each other."

John flushed, dropping her arm. "Right. Sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"No. You shouldn't have." Rose fumed. "I realize Sherlock is your best friend, so you feel like you have to protect him, but your also friends with Greg. Even implying what you just did is an insult to us both, especially when you haven't made the slightest bit of effort to learn about me or our relationship. It would be like me walking up to Mary and asking if she was in love with Sherlock. Yes, he's her friend. Yes, she's affectionate toward him, but she still has you, first and foremost. Ignoring that because, what? Sherlock is more glamorous? That's the height of ego and stupidity."

"You know nothing about my marriage." John hissed, glowering at her.

"And you know nothing about my relationship." She countered. "I won't make assumptions about yours if you don't insult mine. Deal?"

"You're terribly defensive. Sherlock says that's usually a sign of denial."

"I'm living proof that Sherlock can make mistakes. Though, if we're going to compare defensiveness, what does your reaction say about your marriage." Rose help up a hand, staving off his argument. "Forget it. I don't want to know. Just know that yes, I love Sherlock. The same way that I love Mrs. Hudson and my parents, not the way I love Greg."

She walked away, shaking her head. She'd have to apologize later. Too little food, too little sleep, and too much guilt had made her snappy about an understandable inquiry. For right now, though, she was still ticked off and she wanted pancakes.

* * *

**_Please read and review._**


	10. Chapter 10

_**Thank you to everyone who has followed or favorited.**_

_**Hope: Thank you!**_

_**redhouseclan: Lol. I don't know about badass, but I like her. Thanks for the review. I hope you keep reading.**_

* * *

"John doesn't seem to like you much."

Rose rolled her eyes, settling on the side of Sherlock's bed and handing him another cup of tea. It was her night for babysitting duty. She, Greg, Molly, John, and Mrs. Hudson had made a schedule. Poor Mrs. Hudson had him all day, every day, but Greg and Rose took him two nights a week, Molly took another two, and John took the other three. "John doesn't seem to like anybody lately."

"He is more hostile toward you than most." Sherlock stared at her expectantly, waiting for an explanation. She didn't know why. There was no way he hadn't heard their little argument outside the hospital room.

Rose hummed a noncommittal reply and pulled out the dry textbook he'd requested. _Social and Behavioral Foundations of Public Health. _It was boring and drawn-out, but soaking up the new knowledge seemed to keep Sherlock at ease while he was still house-bound.

He reached out, placing a hand on the book and preventing her from opening. "I did hear."

"I know you did."

"I was not aware my visits put a strain on your relationship with Lestrade."

She sighed, patting his hand. "They don't, Sherlock. That's what I was trying to get across. Greg can be a bit jealous at times, and it can be frustrating to know that there's always the possibility that our nights together will be interrupted by you or Mycroft, but we've talked it out. He knows that, no matter what happens, he'll always be my first priority."

"Then me."

"Then my parents." She corrected gently, crawling to the other side of the bed and stretching out. It was late and it had been a long day. She just needed to last long enough for Sherlock to go to sleep, then she could turn on the alarms and set up the trap outside his door. "Then you. Maybe Mrs. Hudson before you."

Sherlock laughed, tenderly shifting to his side to face her. "You have the annoying habit of making me feel less than spectacular."

"That's not what I'm trying to do." She mumbled sleepily, fighting to keep her eyes open. "You are spectacular. But so is Daddy, Pop, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg. I'm trying to make you see that, just because you're the smartest, and you are the most intelligent man I've ever met, Sherlock, it doesn't mean you should be the most important person in the life of everyone you run across."

"But that is a basic instinct. We all have out egos. We all need to believe we are important."

"And we all are important. We all have our roles to play, but that does not mean we immediately take precedence in everyone's life."

"Do you not take precedence in Lestrade's life?"

Rose grinned, settling into the pillow. "Nope. His son is his first priority, then his job, and then me. And I love that."

He gave her a disbelieving glance. "You love being third on his list?"

"I'll never be more than second." She shrugged. "His son will always come first, that's the mark of a good parent. Then his job, that's the mark of a good man." Snuggling a little deeper into the pillow, she chuckled. "An extraordinary, amazing man. He spends all day, every day, catching criminals and solving murders. I'm dating a superhero."

"I do that. Do you think I'm a superhero?"

Rose paused for a minute, thinking it over. Sherlock had never struck her as a superhero. He was more like a curious child. He'd run around ,here and there and everywhere, picking up little clues and examining everything, trying to figure out the world around him. His job was a selfish pursuit.

Greg did it because he truly loved his work. He loved the satisfaction of being able to tell a victim that they were safe. He loved looking through bars to see the serial rapist or the burglar who'd fleeced hard-working people of their money and possessions, and knowing that _he_ put them there. He loved walking out of a courtroom and knowing that the evidence and legwork he put in ensured that whoever he'd just taken to trial would never hurt anyone again.

"Do you know," Sherlock interrupted, "that you have this habit of speaking your thoughts aloud when you're tired. It's simultaneously annoying and endearing."

"If I didn't know you, Sherlock, I'd think you were flirting." Greg said, striding into the room.

Rose laughed. "Good thing you know him then, sweetheart." She struggled up, reaching out for Lestrade. He grinned, helping her to her feet. "I'm going to go crash on the couch. You can read to him." She murmured, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Wake me up when we can go to bed."

Greg laughed. There was a small armchair to the side of Sherlock's bed that only Greg and John used. The women all sat on the side of the mattress. Picking her up, he sat with her in his lap, tucking her head under his chin and gesturing for Sherlock to pass him the book. "You're going to stay right here. I'm going to read until you and Sherlock both fall asleep and," he gave the book a disparaging glance, "probably put myself to sleep in the process. We're all going to wake up sore and stiff, except for Sherlock, and then Mrs. Hudson will make breakfast, we'll go to work, and repeat the process tomorrow."

She was too tired to argue. Nodding slightly, she curled closer, letting her eyes drift closed and ignoring Sherlock's chuckles. The steady thump of Greg's heartbeat was better than any sleeping pill. She was asleep before he ever opened the book.

* * *

Sherlock grinned at the sight of a sleeping Rose. She hadn't bothered to change from her work clothes or take down her hair when she came up. If he knew her, and he was fairly sure he did by now, then her heels were by his front door and her purse, complete with some horror story, was safely tucked beside the couch, far away from the kitchen she'd labeled a death trap and threatened to burn down on a daily basis.

She always wore a simple, cotton button-up shirt in some shade of purple, black slacks or skirt, a black suit jacket, and the antique silver ring she never seemed to take off. He'd never managed to get a satisfactory answer about that. She always shook her head and changed the subject when he tried to guess the who, what, where, why, and how of her favorite jewelry.

Having her in his lap couldn't have been comfortable to Lestrade. Even the most voluptuous women had bones that eventually started to grind into softer flesh, and, while Rose wasn't the tiniest woman he'd ever came across, she was far from physically well-rounded. Still, the detective didn't seem to mind.

Their relationship was puzzling. They were both temperamental, protective, relatively intelligent, and loyal, yet they never seemed to clash. Instead, they brought of sort a peace over each other. It reminded Sherlock of his parents.

"I was not flirting with her." He said suddenly, interrupting Lestrade's reading.

Lestrade chuckled, flipping the book closed. "I know."

"John believes her to be in love with me."

"John is an idiot." He adjusted Rose on his lap, smiling down at her. "Rose is many things, but she's not the type to stay with one person if she's in love with another. If she loved you, she'd have dumped me long ago and gone after you."

Sherlock blanched. Having Janine pursue him had been uncomfortable enough. He couldn't imagine what it'd be like to have Rose hold a flame for him. "That's… that is comforting and disturbing."

"Breathe, Sherlock. I said _if_ she loved you. She doesn't. At least not that way. I think you're like an irritating little brother to her."

"I'm older than her!"

"Only physically." Lestrade unconsciously ran his thumb over the covered scars adorning her arms. "Mentally, Sherlock, she's much older than you. You only recently started using your experiences to mature. She started using them as soon as she got out of the hospital."

"Considering your feelings on substance abuse, I find it odd that you're so committed to a former junkie."

"Former being the key word. After what she went through in that group home, I can't blame her for using in order to escape."

"So there was sexual abuse."

"No." Lestrade held her a little tighter. "That boy she was found with, Bubba, took her out of there before that happened."

"What happened?"

"If she hasn't told you, then it's not my place to say." Lestrade awkwardly maneuvered the book back open, dropping a kiss on Rose's forehead. "Let it go, Sherlock. She'll tell you when she's ready."

* * *

Greg grinned, pressing kisses up and down Rose's neck to wake her up. He loved her like this. First thing in the morning, still groggy from sleep, unable to form complete sentences before at least two cups of coffee. It was adorable. She shuffled around, pouting, grumpy, and glaring at the sun, until she had her shower and was almost ready for work.

Grumbling slightly, she blinked her eyes open. "Mmph."

"And good morning to you, too." He joked, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. Sherlock had gone to sleep shortly after their conversation, and he hadn't had the heart to disturb either of them. Now, his legs were numb, his back was sore, and he really needed to use the restroom. "Time to face the day."

Stumbling slightly, Rose slid off his lap and out the door, probably headed to the kitchen. Her scream and the sound of coffee mugs crashing to the floor confirmed that. Growling under her breath, Rose stomped back into the bedroom, shaking Sherlock awake while Greg stretched and tried to stay out of sight.

"Can I help you, Ms. Creekwood?" Sherlock mumbled, cracking one eye open.

"Yeah. You can. I don't mind staying in this rat's nest twice a week. I don't mind look after you. I don't even mind reading things like _Game Theory_ and _Four Thousand Types of Bug Guts_ to help you sleep."

"Is there a point to this tirade, Rose?" Sherlock interrupted.

Greg winced on Sherlock's behalf. The only reason the consulting detective hadn't been smacked was because he was still healing. Rose snarled. "The point, Sherlock, is that there are certain lines you should not cross. Putting _body parts _in the _coffee maker_ is one of those lines."

"It's my coffee maker."

"You have guests! Guests that like coffee!"

"Guests that lived three flights down and can use their own, experiment-free coffee maker."

"I'm going to kill you, Sherlock."

"I'm remarkable difficult to kill."

Greg grabbed Rose around the waist, pulling her back before she could actually hurt Sherlock. She wasn't the nicest person before her coffee. "Ok. Ok. Calm down, sweetheart. Why don't you run downstairs and get dressed while Sherlock gets up and we'll all go eat breakfast. Someplace with unlimited refills for you, yeah?"

Sherlock poked his head up, giving Rose and Greg and petulant glare. "I'm not going anywhere."

Greg couldn't stop her that time. Her hand shot out and she whapped Sherlock upside the head. "Yes. You are. I'm going to go shower and get ready for work. You're going to get up and get dressed. Greg is going to scrub up and change. We're going to let Mrs. Hudson know she doesn't need to bring you your morning tea, and, if you try to fight me on any of this, I'm calling Mycroft _and_ your mother. Are we clear?"

Sherlock groaned, rubbing his scalp. "If I tell my mother that you just hit her healing son she'll-"

"Laugh and congratulate me once she finds out you've been acting like a brat." Rose interrupted. "This isn't a negotiation Sherlock. If you're not up and moving by the time I get back up here, I will drag you out of bed by your ear and strut you through the streets of London in your boxers."

"I've gone to Buckingham Palace without pants. Do you really think I'll care about the streets of London?"

"You will once I message your little fan club and tell them that Sherlock Holmes is running around, nekkid as a jaybird, and up for the first woman that can grab him."

Greg grinned, pulling Rose a little farther away. "Did you just say 'nekkid?'"

"More to the point, would you really be so cruel?" Sherlock asked, propping himself up on his elbow.

Rose glowered at them both. "If I come back, and you're not up and ready to go, you'll find out."

Sherlock waited until Rose stomped from the room, his last show of defiance, before scrambling from the bed. "I calculate that, without her coffee, Rose will take approximately twenty minutes to get ready. I suggest we hurry."

Greg laughed, ambling towards the living room to grab his travel bag. "I'm not the one she threatened to shove, bare-arsed, into a crowd of screaming fans. You're the one who wants to hurry, Sherlock." He waited until he heard the bathroom door slam closed and the shower start up before he added, "She only takes ten minutes without coffee!"

* * *

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	11. Chapter 11

Rose frowned, carefully working over the body in front of her. Her mortician quit last week and Brandon, while skilled and capable, wasn't ready to prepare a body by himself. It was a good thing Daddy had taught her all tasks involved with running a funeral home.

Brandon popped his head around the corner, whistling to catch her attention. She grinned. Brandon was bright, caring, and he loved working here. She had a feeling that, with the right training and another acquisition, she and Daddy could have another partner in him. "Your 10 o'clock is here."

She furrowed her brow. She didn't have a meeting until tomorrow when the interviews started. "I don't have a 10 o'clock."

Brandon shook his head. "Yes, you do. You have a 10, and 10:30, and an 11. You're interviewing the people who applied to replace Tally."

"That's today?"

"You've got to get more sleep, babe."

"Don't call me babe." Rose snapped off the gloves and set to work untying the smock. "Grab the portable and flip on the monitors. Finish draining Mr. Corlin's blood and call Susanna to do his make-up." She hung up the smock, stopping by the door. "Tell her to try to make it natural this time. Mr. Corlin was a lawyer, not a hooker."

"Solicitor."

She glanced back. "What?"

"They're not lawyers here. They're solicitors."

"You've been talking to Greg again, haven't you."

"And Sherlock Holmes. And a scary man who asked if I'd like to have my parents imprisoned for giving me the boot."

Rose grinned. "That's Mycroft. He's harmless. I'll be back in an hour and a half. We'll hang out the sign and head down the road for some fri- chips. Sound good?"

"Cool." Brandon tied on his own smock. "I should have Susanna here by then. She can keep an eye on the place."

* * *

The man squirmed uncomfortably across from Rose's desk. He was young, no more than four or five years older than Rose. Slender, unassuming, well-qualified. There was something about him that caused a wary prickle at the base of her spine, but she got that from a lot of morticians. They tended to be a bit creepy. It seemed to come with the profession.

"Tell me Mr…" She had to glance at the resume. "Yarrisomm, why did you leave your previous post?"

"It was ran by a wonderful couple who were older and a bit… traditional. When the truth about my sexuality came out, I found myself out of a job."

"That's illegal." Rose pointed out, her blood boiling.

The man nodded. "I'm aware, but, as I said, they're an older couple. Their son will be taking over soon, and he's much more open-minded than his parents. He even gave me a nice severance package."

She frowned, but went back to his resume. She'd have to check it out, of course. There were background checks to run and references to call, but he seemed like the best candidate out of the lot. Of the other two, one had absolutely no experience and had only recently graduated some fly-by-night school that actually allowed her to major in "Mortuary Sciences", while the other one had come in obviously drunk, shaky and openly admitting that he'd been fired from his last post for nearly decapitating one of his corpses. How he'd managed that was beyond her, but she wasn't about to let him do it here.

"One day, things like that won't matter anymore than the color of our hair." Rose murmured, struggling to find another question to ask. "Tell you what, Mr. Yarisomm, come back in two days. That will give me time to check you over, and, as long as your background check comes back clean, we'll test you on a body. Pass that, and you have the job."

His eyes lit up and she couldn't help but feel another paranoid shudder creep up her back. There was something almost manic in those slightly protruding orbs. "Thank you, Ms. Creekwood."

"Rosie, please." She stood up, shaking his hand and ushering him toward the door. "We're pretty informal here, at least with each other. Of course, you won't have to deal with many of the clients. We try to keep the mortuary out of the tour and the morticians away from the living.

"If you do join our little team, you will need some people skills. I find myself drawn away from the office more and more, and that leaves you, Brandon, Stella, or Rudy to handle the phones and walk-ins." She glanced at his panicked expression and patted his shoulder. "Brandon will be your assistant, and you can delegate the people to him, if you like. I'm just giving you fair warning."

Yarisomm smiled. "You're acting like a I already have the job."

"I have a good feeling about you." Rose said confidently. Stopping, she frowned, shaking her head. "Sorry. One of my rules is that we don't lie to each other in this office. The truth is, you're the most qualified candidate to apply, and, even though there's something about you that puts me on edge, and not in a good way, I don't have the time to wait for a better applicant. So, background check and body test. If you pass both, you have the job."

He looked at her in shock for a moment, then started laughing. "I put you on edge?"

"Yes. As in a that-creepy-guy-at-the-bar-probably-put-something-in-my-drink kind of way, not a I'm-socially-awkward-and-talking-to-a-cute-boy kind of way."

"You don't think I'm cute."

"Cute like Ted Bundy."

"Who?"

Rose shook her head. "Never mind. There is something else I need to inform you of." She stopped by the doors, shooting a thumbs up towards the cameras to let Brandon know she was OK. "I don't care what your sexual orientation is. I don't care about your height, weight, skin color, religion, or political views. All I care about is that all my employees, including myself, make this period of grieving as easy as possible on our clients. In order to do that, we have to be accountable to, and for, each other. If one of us screws up, we all screw up. Am I understood?"

"Perfectly."

"Good." She opened the door, letting him walk by. "I'll see you in two days Mr. Yarisomm."

* * *

"So what did you think of the that last guy?" Rose asked, snitching one of Brandon's fries. Her were slow in coming, and she was hungry.

"Very cute." Brandon said, grinning. "Think he swings my way?"

"He does, but you know how I feel about that sort of thing." She warned, with no real heat behind her voice. There were no overt rules stating that employees couldn't date, but she made it more than clear that, if it interfered with their work, both parties would be fired.

He rolled his eyes. She already knew he and Rudy had a casual relationship up until a few months ago when Rudy found a steady boyfriend at school. Stella and Susanna had been together almost from the day Stella started working there. Tally had dated Susanna before that. They were a small, slightly anti-social group. Rose socialized more than they did, and that was only because she spent more time away from the parlour than the rest of them. "So you think he's the one."

"He's the most qualified, and our relationship with the city is deteriorating the longer I have to prep the bodies instead of working with the unknowns. They're our best contract."

"What's his name?"

"Yarisomm. Jared, or Jaret. Something like that. He's spent the past two years at a local place up north and five years before that with Leverton."

"Very well qualified." Brandon sounded impressed.

Rose nodded. "He's coming in the day after tomorrow for a body test."

He cocked his head to the side. "But..?"

"I don't know. I just get a bad feeling from him."

"The same kind of bad feeling you got from that guy that broke in?"

Rose grimaced, gratefully accepting her sandwich and fries from the server. "I never should have told you about that."

"The scary guy set three guys to trail you around for a week." Brandon pointed out. "You had to tell me, otherwise I was going to call the cops."

"And you've been fretting ever since."

"Someone threatened you. I have the right to fret!" He took one of her fries in repayment for the one she'd stolen earlier. "How's that going, anyway?"

"I'm not sure. With everything else that's happened, I haven't really thought about it."

"Fair enough." He took another one of her fries, ignoring her eye roll. "By the way, your dad called."

"Which one?"

"The one on the states."

Rose furrowed her brow. "What did he want?"

"Just to remind you that his flight lands next week at 6:30."

The mustard bottle she'd been squeezing clattered to the table. Pop was coming to visit. For two weeks. Over Christmas. And Daddy would be coming too. And Greg and Josh were supposed to be joining them for dinner. And she hadn't even started her Christmas shopping. Shit. "Brandon." She leaned forward, spearing him with her green eyes. "Here's how this is going to go. You're going to go back and finish Mr. Corlin, and he's going to be perfect. I'm going to stop by Bart's and set up collection for the new unknowns, then I've got to go shopping, and I'm not coming back because I need to have a powwow with Greg then threaten my neighbour into submission."

"What do you have to threaten Sherlock about?"

Rose gave him a withering look. "It's Sherlock Holmes and my father is coming. Think about it."

Brandon blanched. "Mr. Corlin will look like an angel."

* * *

**_Please read and review._**


	12. Chapter 12

Rose groaned, slowly beating her head against the table. Christmas day had officially started three hours ago with Daddy's arrival, and the arguing hadn't stopped. It wouldn't be so bad if they were back in their big house in Boston, but they weren't. They were in her tiny flat in London and there was no escape. No matter where she went she heard them.

A knock sounded at the door, and Rose breathed a sigh of relief. Greg was here. He'd promised to bring his gun. With the way thing were going ,she'd end up using it on herself before the day was over. "Daddy! Pop! Hey! Can you quiet down for a minute!" Her father's quit arguing, looking at her expectantly. "Just please, you've had three hours of going at each other. Greg is here, with his son, and things are already tense enough with the little boy. Can you please, please, be civil to each other, just for the day, and as soon as Greg and Josh leave you can go right back to ripping each other's throats out."

Daddy blanched, walking over and giving her a quick hug. "I'm sorry, little bit. Of course we'll control ourselves." He sent a glare at Pop. "Won't we, Ronald."

"I can if you can, Allan." Pop spit back.

Rose rolled her eyes, walking toward the door. "Hey." She murmured, opening the door just enough to angle herself out. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Greg grinned, kissing her cheek. "We heard. Josh wants to talk to you for a second, then we're ready to face the dragons."

She grinned, glancing down at Josh. "What's up, little man?"

"Can we talk by ourselves, Ms. Rose?"

Glancing up at Greg, he nodded calmly and she slipped out in the hallway. Sherlock was at his parents and Mrs. Hudson had gone to the country with a group of friends. They were the only ones in 221 Baker Street. "Why don't you go in and introduce yourself to Pop? There's eggnog in the kitchen, and be careful of the archway. Daddy hung some mistletoe." She said to Greg, and lead Josh toward the stairs. They sat down about halfway up. "What's going on, Josh?"

"I do like you."

Rose blinked. "What?"

"I heard you tell your dads that things were tense with me. Dad said it's because you thought I didn't like you. I do like you." Josh dropped his head, a blush staining his cheeks. "I thought you didn't like me."

"Oh, honey." She pulled him into a half-hug. "Why on earth would you ever believe such a silly thing?"

"Dad told me that you were the one who only wanted to spend one of our weekends with us. I thought it was because you didn't like me. Because I remind you that Dad was married to someone else."

Rose chuckled, pulling him over and laying her head across his. "Boy did I make a muddle of things. I should have listened to your father."

"Huh?"

"I didn't want to be around too much, because I didn't want you to think I'm trying to take your mom's place, not because I didn't like you." She explained gently. "Your dad noticed you were uncomfortable around me and thought that we should all be together every time he had you for the weekend, but I said that one weekend should be the three of us and one weekend should be just you and him that way you didn't think that I was trying to take your dad away." She grimaced, pulling her arm away and resting her hands on her knees. "I should have listened to him."

"I didn't really like you at first." Josh admitted, shrugging. "You make Dad happy, though, and you really love him."

"I never didn't like you." Rose assured him. "The kids I grew up with were a lot different than you, so I didn't know how to act. I know what it's like to have my parents split up, though. That's why I thought making sure you had as much time with your dad was the best way to deal with this."

"You parents sound like they hate each other." Josh said. "Mom and Dad sounded like that just after the divorce."

"Are they better now?"

"Yeah. Dad's been a lot better since he met you."

It was Rose's turn to blush. "He makes me better too."

"Do you love him?"

"With all my heart."

"Do you love me?"

"I think I could learn to." She said, looking down at him. "But we haven't really talked enough. It'd be like me asking if you loved me."

Josh grinned, nudging her with his shoulder. "I think I could learn to."

She laughed, standing up and reaching her hand down to him. "Come on, little man. Let's go have the loudest Christmas ever."

* * *

The call came in as they were unwrapping presents. It was a family tradition that most people didn't understand. Rose had never opened her presents before dusk. Not while she was with Daddy and Pop. They always spent the day in the kitchen, laughing, dancing, and cooking with all their friends and neighbours, then they sat down to a big meal, and then they'd open presents. There hadn't been as much laughing or dancing since the divorce and the moves, but Rose kept the tradition of the big meals, and presents afterwards.

"Here you go, Josh." She said, passing him the gift she'd bought for him. It had taken her hours to decide on the perfect present. What did eleven year-olds like? She'd finally given in and called Greg. They decided to get complimentary presents. He was getting Josh an IPhone, so Rose got him a case, screen protector, headphones, and an ITunes gift card so he could start buying music. Greg's phone rang as Josh was in the middle of tearing open his presents. Rose decided to be evil and wrap each gift individually, stack them all in a box, wrap that box, put it in a bigger box, and wrap that box as well. Josh was on his second box.

Greg walked away, his voice low and worried. Rose tried not to let Josh see, distracting him with stupid jokes. She couldn't hide anything from Daddy and Pop though. They were switching their gaze between Rose and Greg, their silence getting tenser by the minute. Finally, Greg poked his head out of the kitchen, waving her toward him.

"Daddy. Pop. Why don't you open the presents Greg and I got you. I'll be back in a second." Rose murmured, trying to give Josh a comforting smile. It came out as more of a grimace. They all feared that Greg was about to be called away on a case. Still grimacing, she slid into the kitchen. "What's going on?"

"Sherlock's been arrested?"

"What? What did he do this time? He just healed enough to get around without a cane." Rose started pacing, cursing under her breath. "If he broke into Magnussen's office again, I'm going to strangle him."

"Rosie. Rosie." Greg grabbed her by her shoulders, drawing her to a halt. "Rosie, he's been arrested for murder. He shot Magnussen in front of an entire team of police."

Her knees buckled. Greg caught her, pulling her against his chest. "He what?"

"He killed Magnussen." Greg's voice was hollow, dead. "He murdered a man."

Rose shook her head, pulling away. "No. No." She shook off Greg's hands, unaware that she'd started to cry. "It's not possible. Sherlock isn't a killer. He's not. He can't be." The tears fell harder and she wrapped her arms around her waist, choking back sobs. "Please tell me he didn't."

Greg growled, punching the cabinets. "Dammit, Rosie, I wish I could, but he killed someone."

"Is there anything we can do?"

"Mycroft is handling it."

She nodded, sucking in deep breaths to calm herself down. Resolutely, she swiped at the tears on her face. Her fathers were here. Greg's son was here. It was Christmas. Mycroft was handling it. He'd find a way to get Sherlock out of it. "Ok. Ok. Then this is what we do. We're about to fake it."

"Excuse me?"

"We're going to take a swig of bourbon. We're going to calm down. Then we're going to go in there and fake it until this holiday is over and we're going to make sure our family has a Christmas they'll never forget. Then you, me, and Josh are going back to your place while Daddy goes to his hotel and Pop crashes here, and we're going to stay up late eating cookies and drinking cocoa until Josh passes out. That's the goal for today. That's what we focus on. The rest can wait for tomorrow." She pulled down the alcohol, taking a deep draught straight from the bottle. Wordlessly, she passed it to him. "Tonight is about our family. Tomorrow we worry about Sherlock."

* * *

Rose tucked hand into the crook of Mycroft's arm, letting him lead her down the narrow hall. It was dark. It was dank. She didn't want to identify the smells emanating from the cells. All she wanted to do was say good-bye to Sherlock.

Mycroft had somehow managed to swing it to where Sherlock would be exiled, not locked away. The sadness in his eyes made her think that maybe Mycroft knew exile might as well be execution. "He's not going to be alright."

The way Rose said it made it clear it wasn't a question. Mycroft had the grace not to treat it like one. "I'd offer to relocate everyone with him, but, where Sherlock is going, that's not possible."

"How long?"

"Six months, at best."

"You should have let them lock him up."

"He wouldn't survive six weeks in prison, Rose. This way he still has the possibility of life. It is a very slim possibility, but it's more than he'd have otherwise." Mycroft patted her hand, leading her down a flight of stairs. "I did what I had to do."

"I know." She dipped her head, fighting back tears. She didn't want the last time Sherlock saw her to be marred by tears. "Greg's distraught."

"As is Mrs. Hudson." Mycroft gave the closest thing to a smile she'd ever seen from him. "She won't stop calling."

"She won't stop crying." Rose corrected. "Somehow this is worse than when she thought he was dead."

"I don't see how."

"Don't you?" She stopped, bringing him around to face her. "Death is final. Death is permanent, or it's supposed to be. Death means that you will eventually reach that fifth stage of grieving and learn to accept that your loved one is no longer with you. This-" she gestured around, "doesn't offer that. Prison, exile, it all sticks you with the hope that somehow, someday, your loved one will come back. You end up circling through denial, anger, bargaining, and guilt again and again and again for the rest of your life. There is no end."

Mycroft frowned. "You'd rather Sherlock be dead?"

"No. I'd rather the British government realize this was justified and chalk it up to defense of others."

"We have no proof of that."

"Who was it that told me that they could throw me in prison for walking down the street? Who offered to get me the fake documents shutting down Sherlock's equally fake girlfriend? You can create the proof."

"Not this time, Rose." Mycroft turned, propelling them down the hall. "I wish I could."

Rose ducked her head, giving a bitter laugh. "How'd we end up like this, Mycroft? I was normal. I had a normal life. I had a normal job with a normal boyfriend and a normal routine. Now I'm walking through prison with one of the most powerful men in the United Kingdom discussing ways to let a murderer go."

"I hate to destroy your illusion, Rose Creekwood, but your life stopped being normal the moment you asked Detective Inspector Lestrade on a date."

"I'd love to contradict you, Mycroft Holmes, but you are, unfortunately, right." The walked in silence for a few moments, Rose's mind racing ahead. She wished there was a way out of this for Sherlock. John would never recover, nor would Mrs. Hudson. Molly would move on, as would Greg, until Sherlock was eventually a fond memory. And Mycroft… Without his brother to watch over, Mycroft would regress into the cold, calculating, sullen, recalcitrant bastard everyone believed him to be. "You need a goldfish."

He jerked to a stop, staring down at her. "Excuse me?"

"That's what you call the Average Joe walking about, right? Goldfish? You need one."

"And what on earth makes you think that?"

She shrugged, pulling them along. "You need someone to watch after. Pick a cop, or maybe that man Sherlock took under his wing. Bill, right? Someone for you to remember your humanity for."

Mycroft shook his head. "That would imply that I have some humanity, Rose."

"Bullshit someone else. I know better."

"We have to work on your language."

"Why?" Grinning, she shot him a look full of mischief. "The only time I curse regularly is if I'm flustered or if I'm trying to get a rise out of you."

"You're evil."

"You love it."

"Blasphemy."

Rose laughed, the cheery sound tapering off as the stopped in front of a solid steel door. Unconsciously, she gripped Mycroft's arm a little tighter. He gave her a pitying look. "You don't have to do this." He murmured, even as he signaled the guard to roll the door. "Sherlock will understand."

She shook her head, straightening her shoulders. "No he won't, Mycroft. Too many of his friends can't handle this. He needs someone to come in and explain to him that they still love and support him, but their hearts would break and their lives would crumble if they had to see him behind bars."

"And yours isn't."

She gave him a sad smile. "It is. I'm just better with stitches and mortar."

* * *

**_Please read and review._**


	13. Chapter 13

**_Author's note at end._**

* * *

Sherlock was meditating. Rose sighed, shaking her head and gingerly sitting on the floor next to the bed. She was afraid of what probably stained that floor, but she didn't want to disturb him either. This was probably one of the few moments of peace he'd been able to achieve since being thrown in here.

Silently, she let her head fall back, thinking to the first time she'd met him. She still couldn't feel guilty about smashing a skillet into his head. With what she'd known at the time, it was the best course of action. Even Sherlock didn't hold a grudge anymore. Of course, he did constantly rib her about making what was, quite probably, the worst cup of tea he'd ever had the misfortune to drink, even going into detail as to how Mrs. Hudson had grimaced and made a new pot as soon as Rose left, but she made up for it with the iced tea she made for herself.

Those deductions had been horrible. She liked to blame it on the concussion. He claimed it was because she didn't carry any of the normal markers of a foster child. That could be true too. Daddy and Pop had gotten to her early enough, or maybe she'd just been so desperate for normal, that she shed the habits of her childhood and early teen years like a snake shedding its skin.

A large, lightly calloused hand tapped her forehead. Rose blinked her eyes open, staring up at Sherlock. "Howdy."

"Americans don't really say that."

"Depends on the region and generation. Older men in the south, especially Texas and Oklahoma, do."

Sherlock nodded, filing away the information for later. "Why are you here?"

She shrugged. "Would you like me to go?"

"No."

"Would you like to talk?"

"About what?"

"The truth." Rose didn't move. She didn't think she really blinked. There was something static in the room. Something heavy and tense that practically screamed everything would go to hell if she made the slightest change. "I was wondering if you ever figured out everything that was wrong with those first deductions."

Sherlock slipped down, sitting on the floor next to her. "Is this important now, Rose?"

"I have two hours, very little to talk about, and a paralyzing fear of actually saying good-bye." She admitted. "So let's leave the important stuff for later and fill the interim with memories, anecdotes, and meaningless fluff."

"You don't need to be here." He pointed out.

She gave a wry smile. "Yes I do. You know I do."

"It's not your responsibility. _I'm _not your responsibility."

"But you are my friend." She felt sluggish. Lethargy claimed her limbs. She wanted to reach out and cover his hand, to convey with touch what she couldn't quite put into words, but that pressure in the rooms didn't let her. "I have to be here."

Sherlock mimicked her pose, head back against the grimy mattress, arms loosely draped over drawn-up knees. "What if I asked you to leave?"

"You won't."

"How do you know?"

She shrugged. "I just do."

He sighed. "I hate small talk."

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not." He shot back, grinning at her. "You like pushing me outside my comfort zone."

"I prefer to think of it as acting like Miracle Grow to your emotional development." She gave a cheeky grin.

Sherlock face took on a solemn tone. "Emotions are what got me here."

"Can you tell me about it?"

"Not without betraying John and Mary."

"The same way it would have betrayed them to tell Greg it was Mary who shot you?"

His eyes narrowed on her. "How did you find that out?"

She hadn't really. She'd been thinking about it for months, trying to figure out why whoever had shot Sherlock wasn't in prison. He'd seen his shooter. Even if they'd been wearing a mask, Sherlock would have been able to gather enough markers to figure out their identity. The only possible reason she could think of for his shooter to still be breathing free air is if it was someone he knew and cared for. She and Greg had been with Mrs. Hudson, and John, Molly, and Mycroft would rather shoot themselves than hurt Sherlock, so that left Mary. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't think of a reason that Mary would want to shoot Sherlock, though. "Lucky guess." She murmured honestly. "If she wasn't pregnant, I'd kill her."

"No you wouldn't."

"I'd fantasize about it."

"I think you're closer to being a sociopath than you like to let on."

"I prefer to think of it as a healthy appreciation for the violent daydreams that occur as part of the natural human psychological condition."

"I never should have made you read those books."

Rose laughed, the sound low, throaty, and tinged with grief. Sherlock grin was as anguished as her laughter. They both knew this was the last time they'd ever be able to do this. He tilted to the side, resting his shoulder against hers.

"Why didn't you go to university?" He asked after a few moments of uncomfortable silence. It was like they had to talk or risk the odd little house of cards they'd built crumbling around them.

"Fear. I wasn't sure I could stay clean if I was away from Daddy and Pop for too long."

"Yet you moved to London without hesitation."

"College came around three years after I got clean. Moving to London didn't happen until I was nine years sober. It was easier."

He nodded. The fact that she'd never relapsed was a miracle in itself. It was probably because she had such a strong support system in her parents. That and she had the classic "good child" mentality. Do as your parents say, without fight or question, and you never have to worry about losing their love. With her fractured upbringing, it was understandable. "Your writing?"

"Birth, death, and marriage are all historical markers. By writing them down and making sure they're printed and catalogued, I'm saving a small part of history."

"And that's all that matters. That's why you never pursue anything greater than announcements."

"I don't need to. The parlour is making a name for itself. We're getting more and more clients through word of mouth and I have an official contract with the city for the cremation of unknowns. Most of the announcements were for extra cash, but it won't be long before I won't need to do anything more than the obituaries that come as part of the package."

"In under three years you've drawn a rundown parlour from the brink of extinction to profitable and growing. Your father must be proud."

"As proud as your brother is of you."

Sherlock gave a harsh laugh. "I'm a disappointment to my brother."

She chuckled. "Right. You're an idiot if you actually believe that."

"I'm a junkie murderer who's been exiled from the country."

"You're also his little brother. He's always going to be hard on you, but he loves you more than he loves anyone else on this planet. He just wants you to be the great man everyone knows you can be."

"You sound as if you speak from experience."

"Think of it this way. Imagine life is a race. It's not, but imagine it. You're on a track, steadily plodding along. Sometimes you move ahead. Sometimes you fall back. But through it all, you have people around you. Some people, like your parents or my daddy, inch you forward from the starting line. Other people, like John or Greg, cheer at you from the sidelines, pushing you to keep going. Then there are others, like Pop and Mycroft, who stand at the finish line, constantly screaming at you to keep going. They want you to run a little harder, force yourself to go a little faster, make you test your limits, and, when it's all said and done, they won't give you accolades or shower you with affection, but they're the proudest of all."

Sherlock thought about it for a moment. Rose was right, of course. When it came to the actions and motivations of friends and family, she normally was. He tilted a little more, resting his head across the top of hers. "I will miss you, Rose."

She let out a choked sob, trying to hold in the tears. "I'll miss you too, Sherlock. We all will."

"The others…"

"John and Mary will be at the airstrip tomorrow. Greg is coming by later, after he gets off work. Molly and Mrs. Hudson just can't, Sherlock. They love you too much."

He nodded, clenching his fists. "You shouldn't have come here, Rose."

She shifted, and the house of cards tumbled. Kneeling in front of him, she worked off the antique ring he'd never seen her without, pried his fingers open, and sat it in his palm. Carefully, she closed his hand around it. "When I left the group home, there was a woman there. A matron. She knew what the man was doing to us. She knew how he beat the younger kids and raped the older ones. She didn't know what to do. She'd tried to report him, but CPS didn't believe her. She tried to protect us, but she ended up in the hospital herself. So she patched us up and counseled us. She spent a lot of time on me. When I turned ten, Bubba and I made a pact. If we saw him bearing down on one of the others, we'd take the heat off them and take the beating ourselves. We were too young for the other things he liked to do.

"It worked for a couple years. Then I hit puberty and he started to give me the looks that he gave the older kids." Rose closed her eyes, pushing back the memories. "Bubba had been through it a few times before. He was already using to handle the fall-out, but he said he wasn't going to let it happen to me. So we packed up to leave. The matron caught us, but she didn't raise the alarm. Instead, she helped us sneak out, and, before I left, she gave me this. She apologized, said she wished there was more that she could do, and said that I should be able to sell this for enough to get far away.

"Bubba and I were both young and attractive. We didn't have any problems hitching, and after I started using too it was even easier because," she shuddered, "because we were both willing to do things we wouldn't normally consider if it got us a ride and a fix. There were a few times when things were really lean, but I couldn't bring myself to sell it. It reminded me that there was more to this world than the people I met on the streets or the man who ran the home. It reminded me that there were people who wanted to do good, even if they were powerless. And, when Pop and Daddy rescued me, it reminded where I came from and what I fought through to become someone who was worth the faith so many people showed me."

She stood up, keeping her hands closed around his. "Keep it. Use it to remember."

"I have a mind palace."

"This is visual and tactile. It's more powerful than anything in you can store in your mind palace."

Sherlock struggled to his feet. Rose tried reminding herself that he was uncomfortable with physical affection, but she couldn't stop herself. She wrapped herself around his middle, sobbing into his chest. To give him credit, Sherlock didn't flinch away. Crossing his arms over her shoulders, he squeezed as tight as he possibly could and let her cry herself out. They didn't speak. She wept. He held on. They both grieved. Finally, when the tears dried and their arms hurt, Rose backed away.

She swiped at her face, and embarrassed blush staining at her cheeks. Mascara smeared, ringing her eyes like a raccoon's. The bloodshot orbs with bright green irises looked like some sort of macabre Christmas ornament. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize."

"Too late." She knocked on the steel door, signaling that she was ready to leave. Mycroft had promised to give them their privacy, but she knew he was watching from somewhere. Rose looked down at Sherlock's hand, seeing that he still had the ring clenched in his fist. "I'll pick up a chain this afternoon. John can give it to you tomorrow."

He nodded stiffly. She felt the door open at her back. Mycroft settled a heavy hand on her shoulder. She winced, physically hurting with what she had to say. "Good-bye, Sherlock."

"Good-bye, Rose." Sherlock twitched, as if he were about to step forward and he held himself back at the last minute. A strangled cry tried to escape and she quickly left, rushing down the hall until she reached the guard picket. Mycroft approached slowly, drawing her arm through his and quietly leading her out of the prison. "I'll arrange a car to take you home."

"I need to go to the funeral parlour." She murmured. "I have work to do."

"Your emotional state-"

"Can be controlled, Mycroft. I'll take a train if you don't want to send me to work."

He sighed heavily, patting her hand. "I will be by at eight with Detective Inspector Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson requested a vigil, of sorts, for tonight, and I am unwilling to deny her. You will be attending as well."

"You make it sound like I don't have a choice."

"Sorry, little goldfish, but you don't."

Rose grinned, shaking her head. She shouldn't have suggested he adopt a goldfish. A black car drew up in front of them, and Mycroft opened the door for her. She slid in gratefully, Anthea already waiting. Mycroft barked a couple orders at the patient woman and squeezed Rose's shoulder. "Eight p.m., Ms. Creekwood."

"Yes, Mycroft." Anthea grinned as they drove away. Rose arched an eyebrow. "What?"

"Mycroft messaged." The woman shook the mobile practically glued to her hand. "He asked to get your opinion on fish food."

* * *

"Ms. Creekwood? Are you ok?"

Rose looked up, swiping at the tears on her cheeks. She'd been crying off and on since she got back from the prison. She couldn't help it. "Jaret." She flinched a little, seeing the mortician in the doorway. The man still gave her the creeps, but he could work magic on dead bodies. "Sorry. Um, no." A hysterical little chuckled escaped. "No. I'm not alright."

He inched into the office. "Want to talk about it?"

Restless, Rose got up, pacing to the coffee maker at the side of the room. "Would you like a coffee?"

"Three sugars and lots of cream, please."

She nodded, shakily pouring the hot beverage. The pot was always full when she was here. It was supposed to be for the clients, but she drank more of it than they ever did. Silently, she reached under into the mini-fridge and pulled out a small bottle of creamer, showing it to the mortician. "Peppermint mocha ok, or would you prefer half-and-half?"

Jaret cocked his head to the side. "Peppermint mocha is fine."

She nodded again, unsure of what to say. How do you tactfully explain to your employee that sociopathic murderer of a neighbour was being exiled and you were actually upset about it? It's not like she could just spill the entire story. She wasn't even supposed to know about most of it. It was technically considered classified, but Mycroft liked her and she may have resorted to threats involving phone calls to his mother in order to get the full story. Carefully, Rose carried the mugs of coffee to the small couch in her office, gesturing for Jaret to sit next to her.

He sank down gracefully; his movements were eerily similar to Sherlock. Slowly, she explained the situation, editing out names and pertinent information. Jaret listened silently, nodding along and awkwardly patting her shoulder when she started crying. "I'm not supposed to be the one who cries." She finished on a whisper. "My boyfriend, my landlady, his brother: they don't need me weepy and inconsolable. They need me to be strong and stoic. They need me to be there for them and I…"

"You can't." He finished. "You love him."

"Not like you mean. I grew up in foster care. It feels like when one of the younger kids I was placed with got sent back to their junkie parents. I'd spent months, sometimes years, looking after them, and then they were just gone. Like him."

"Sherlock isn't leaving, Rosie." Jaret scooted a little closer, throwing and arm over her shoulders. "They won't let him."

Rose stilled. She'd never said Sherlock's name. She made sure of it. She'd never mentioned it was her neighbour that was leaving or gave any indication of who it was. She took every precaution to make sure she gave no hints as to who was being exiled. "Yeah." She said awkwardly, scooting away. "Maybe you're right. I should probably put it out of my mind. There's work to do, anyway. I need to go find Brandon and-"

"Rosie, Rosie, Rosie." Jaret muttered. He struck quickly, sliding his arm around her neck and squeezing. "You're a terrible liar, Rosie."

She gasped, eyes bugging, trying to suck in air. Desperately, she clawed at him, raking her nails across his arm. Jaret squeezed tighter. Her vision started to go black around the edges. "Hush now, Rosie. It will all be OK." He laughed, the sound low and menacing. "Then again, maybe it won't. Sorry. I'm so changeable."

* * *

_**Author's Note: So... yeah. Gotta say, even I didn't expect this. I was all ready to wrap up, a nice clean ending in mind and I'd stick to my simple, happy little story about friendship and the day-to-day emotions and occurences in a stable relationship, then this happened. I'd say sorry, but I'm really not. Even I was getting bored, to be honest. This is a nice little change of pace.**_

_**P.S. I'm fairly sure I've made it obvious, but, just in case, Jaret Yarisomm is James Moriarty. Free story request to the first person to review with the proper term for how I came up with the name.**_

_**P.P.S. When I say "free", obviously I don't mean I'm charging for story requests. I've forgotten to put up the usual disclaimer, but, and let me make this abundantly clear, I DO NOT MAKE ANY MONEY FROM THIS. I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK OR THE CHARACTERS (except for Rose). THIS IS ALL FOR FUN. "Free" is just a turn of phrase.**_

* * *

_**Please read and review.**_


	14. Chapter 14

_**I-am-Sherlocked-82: You're up to two story requests now! Lol. Just private message whenever you like to give me the prompt. I'm glad you like the twist. I hope the rest of this doesn't disappoint.**_

_**ChocolateDaddie: Good job! Lol. Yarisomm was always going to be Moriarty, but he was really only supposed to have a minor role. Maybe the set-up for a sequel once Season 4 came out and I knew where the actual show was going. Then Ch. 13 happened and that all went out the window.**_

_**Author's Note: I'm so sorry for the long delay. My daughter's third birthday just passed and I've been wrapped up in party plans and present shopping. Since I've admitted that I'm already a mother, I thought I'd give you a bit more information about myself. I'm 22, married, and a student. Currently, I'm studying to be a human right lawyer, specializing in LGBTQ rights violations. I am asexual (odd, I know, considering that I have a husband and a child), and it's only one of the many reasons LGBTQ rights hold such a special place in my heart. I know my writing is juvenile for my age, but I'm working to correct that. That's part of the reason I write fanfiction. Practice makes perfect, right? Anyway, I know very few of you are interested in this, but for those that are, I thought I'd make a preemptive strike on the questions. Thank you all, again, for taking the time to read this story.**_

_**Love,**_

_**J.M.**_

* * *

It looked like a dilapidated apartment. Horrid paisley wallpaper peeled along the walls and there were holes in the floor. Hesitantly, she got to her feet, grimacing with distaste as a bit of the derelict couch stuck to her slacks. She felt splinters in her feet and realized that the bastard had taken her shoes. They'd been nice shoes. Not designer or anything, but nice. Daddy had bought her those shoes.

Cautiously, she inched along the edges of the room. That seemed to be where the wood was the sturdiest. The first door she came to was a bathroom. Rose wrinkled her nose at the mildewing, rotting room. She'd hold it if she ended up needing to go.

The next door led to the kitchen. It was a bit cleaner than the rest of the flat, but not by much. An old refrigerator hummed in the corner. Hesitantly, she worked her way towards it, peeking in curiously. Plenty of food and drinks covered the shelves, complete with her favorite creamer, and there were even some frozen meals in the freezer. That was a bit of a relief. Either Jaret wasn't planning on killing her immediately or he was staying here too. Checking the cupboards, she decided on the former. Her favorite brand of creamer could be coincidence. Her favorite coffee and cookies, too much so.

Apparently he'd heard about the incident with the skillet, because their were no cooking utensils to be found. Not so much as baking sheet or a knife. There were forks though. She stuffed one in her waistband, just in case. Creeping out of the kitchen and around to the second to last door, she jiggled the knob. Locked. That must be the way out, and the jerk hadn't even left her a butter knife to try to jimmy the lock with. Asshole.

"In here, Rosie!" Jaret's sing-song voice called out from the last door. Practically crawling through the weakest point of the flat, Rose made her way to the last door. It opened up into a ruined bedroom. Jaret sat at a small table in the corner, a glass of wine in front of an empty chair. She wasn't drinking that. Rose promised herself she'd stab Jaret before she drank that wine and whatever he put in it. "Nice to see you awake."

"I'm trying not to freak out and scream, Mr. Yarisomm, but the longer I'm here, the harder it gets."

He grinned, eyes flashing to the fork at her hip. "The cutlery, Rosie? Will I be forced to make you eat with your hands?"

Sighing, she handed over the make-shift weapon, spitefully jabbing the prongs into his wrist when he reached out to take it. She wasn't close enough to break his nose or strong enough to actually win in a fight if she charged him. Her best bet, for the moment, was to play along to with whatever twisted little game he wanted to play and wait for a real opportunity. "People who kidnap me don't get to call me Rosie."

"This isn't a kidnapping. This is a favor." Jaret gave a benign smile. "You didn't want Sherlock to leave, did you?"

"Don't try to bullshit me. This isn't a favor. You don't believe that, and I sure as hell don't believe that."

"Have you considered that your frightening penchant for honesty might not be the wisest trait to expose in your current predicament?"

"Have you considered that I've pretty much resigned myself to death, so there's not a lot for me to lose?"

Jaret laughed, gesturing for her to sit down. "See, this is why I like you, Rosie. You're realistic. You see things how they are." After she gingerly seated herself on the edge of her chair, he stuck out his hand. "It's about time I properly introduced myself. Jim Moriarty."

Her blood froze even as she automatically shook his hand. "You don't look like Jim Moriarty."

"That would be courtesy of a mustache and goatee along with some silicon pads to plump up my cheeks and a bit of make-up to change the shape of my eyes. I'll come in without all the trappings tomorrow."

"Joy."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."

"But the funniest."

He laughed. "Debatable. Drink your wine. I know you tend to prefer stronger spirits, but I personally can't tolerate them."

She pursed her lips and gave him a glance that clearly stated she wasn't buying it. Pulling on all her knowledge of crappy TV and bad action movies, Rose pushed the glass toward him. "You first."

Jaret/Jim rolled his eyes, but took a sip of the wine. "You may have resigned yourself to death, but I don't plan on killing you yet." He said, handing the glass back. "If your little friends play along, you'll have about a week."

Rose shuddered, setting her wine down. Even if it wasn't poison, it was still probably drugged. "So it's not just Sherlock that you're after."

"If it was just Sherlock, I would have taken John Watson again. I want them all. Sherlock, Mycroft, Lestrade, John, even Mrs. Hudson. They'll all have their parts to play."

"And I have mine." She frowned, tapping at the edge of the table. "The damsel in distress."

"You're a very pretty damsel."

"You're not my type."

"I'm aware. I'd have to be a silver-haired detective to catch your eye."

"You'd have to be Greg. Looks really aren't the important part. It's the personality."

Jim smirked. "Everyone says that. No one means it."

She arched an eyebrow. "Let me go and I'll show you a picture of my first love. You'll believe me then." There was a suspicious absence of windows in the entire place. There weren't even boarded over holes where windows used to be. It made it impossible to tell how long she'd been out. "What time is it?"

"Almost midnight." Jim answered, watching her carefully.

Rose tried not to let her relief show. That meant that Greg and Mycroft already knew she was missing. Eight o'clock. Mycroft had been sure to stress that he and Greg would be there by eight o'clock. It was four hours past that now. They'd be scouring London for her.

"I wouldn't count on you cavalry." He added, smiling maliciously. "I had Brandon let them know that your fathers took you on an impromptu trip to Brighton. They desperately wanted to spend time with their little girl, even if they had to put up with each other to do it, and you, being the good little daughter you always strive to be, couldn't say no, even on the eve of your friend's departure." She deflated and he gave a malignant laugh. "Don't worry. They'll find out otherwise tomorrow. Approximately two hours after Sherlock's return from his very brief exile."

Striking quickly, Jim drove a needle into her arm, pushing down the plunger even as she tried to jerk away. "Go back to sleep, Rosie. We'll talk more tomorrow.

* * *

Greg was furious. He was beyond furious. He was enraged and the funeral parlour's walls were paying the price. As soon as Moriarty's message started broadcasting, he called Joshua, then told his ex to leave London for the foreseeable future. Then he tried to call Rosie. No one answered. So he tried Allan. Allan answered. Allan was already back in Swansea, not with Rosie and Ronald in Brighton. So he called Ronald. Ronald wasn't in Brighton either. Ronald was at his hotel in London, waiting for Rose's lunch break so that they could go eat before.

He went by the parlour. Brandon was there. He questioned Brandon. Rosie hadn't put in a single-call, and hadn't personally told Brandon that she wouldn't be there. The new mortician, A Mr. Jaret Yarisomm, had relayed the message. Greg may not be considered as intelligent a Sherlock or Mycroft, but it took him less than thirty seconds to see the anagram. He called Mycroft.

The spy would be at the parlour in twenty minutes. In the meantime, Greg and Brandon scoured the surveillance tapes for any signs of where Moriarty had taken Rose. They had him choking her and carrying her to the garage, but the number on the body truck he'd taken was obscured and, until Mycroft got here, they didn't have enough access to CCTV to track it.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me about this Yarisomm sooner?" Mycroft growled, stomping into Rose's office. "We had a deal."

"A deal?" Greg looked from Mycroft to Brandon. "What deal?"

"He keeps me apprised of Rose's actions, I keep him in pocket change."

"You set people to spy on Rosie?" Greg growled, grabbing Mycroft by his lapels. "She's not your brother!"

"No. She's my goldfish. I also have people who spy on you, John Watson, and even Ms. Hooper. Try not to take it personally."

"Spy on me?" Greg blanched.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Breathe, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I have no intentions of revealing your plans to Rose. The romanticism of it all is nausea-inducing merely in thought. I can't imagine actually discussing it."

"That because you don't have someone like Rose." Greg let go of the bureaucrat. "Did you call her a goldfish?"

It was Mycroft's turn to blanch. "It is an… an inside joke between Rose and I."

Brandon clapped, grabbing their attention. "Great. Now that the customary pissing match is out of the way, maybe we can think about how we're going to find her? It's been almost 24 hours. If you two don't start searching then Greg over there is never going to get to show her whatever epically mushy thing he's been planning and Mr. Scary won't be telling any jokes whatsoever."

Mycroft chuckled. "Mr. Scary?"

"You threatened to throw my parents in prison."

"They kicked you out."

"How is that your business?"

"You made it Rose's business, therefore it is my business."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you had a little crush, Mr. Scary."

"He's an aromantic asexual." Greg interrupted. "Focus, boys. We need to focus on Rosie. Is there any way you can get ahold of Sherlock, Mycroft? He knows Moriarty better than anyone."

"Sherlock should have arrived at Baker Street by now."

Greg nodded. At this point, he didn't care if Sherlock was a murderer. Sherlock could be a serial killer. Sherlock could be in league with Moriarty. He didn't give a flying fuck. He just wanted to find Rosie, and Sherlock was his best bet for doing that. "Let's go then. Call Sherlock on the way. Let him know what's going on."

* * *

There were four new holes in the wall, all of them put there by Lestrade. Moriarty left a note, the heartless bastard. They had a sadistic little scavenger hunt to participate in with dead bodies instead of random objects as their target. The catch: They each had a body to find. Eight bodies for eight of Moriarty's "less important" victims. If they all found their victim by the end of the week, he'd give them the clue to find Rose. If they didn't, she died, and he'd leave her dismembered body scattered across the city in pretty little packages for them. They couldn't help each other. Each person's clue was their own, and, if they cheated, Rose died immediately.

Anderson, Donovan, and Molly had been dragged into it with Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, John, and the Holmes brothers. All of them, plus Mary and Anthea, stood around the tiny sitting room of 221B, unwilling to open their envelopes. Finally, with a growl, John ripped his open. They waited in silence while he read the hint.

"What does it say?" Donovan finally asked, tapping her foot impatiently.

"He cannot tell you." Sherlock interrupted, holding a hand up to John. "Do not tell her. You saw what Moriarty wrote. If we attempt to help each other, Rose will die."

"How we he know?" Donovan demanded angrily, tearing her own packet open. "Look, mine says-"

Greg slapped his hand over her mouth. "We play this that psycho's way. You will not risk Rosie's life by testing him. If you try to, I'll kill you myself. Do you understand?"

Glaring, she nodded. Mycroft snapped his fingers and Anthea had a gun pointed to Donavon's head. "Detective Inspector Lestrade has given his warning, so allow me to give mine. If Rose is murdered because one of you cannot follow instructions, no one will ever find the body and you'll be tried, _in absentia_, as a traitor."

Anderson gulped clutching his piece of the puzzle a little tighter, while Sherlock smiled grimly. "We have one week." The consulting detective reminded them grimly. "To… resist, temptation, I suggest we all go to our own homes and ponder our clues in private. Anything less could be seen as seeking help."

"We're not detectives, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson said timidly, grasping Molly's hand tightly. "How are we supposed to do this?"

Sherlock rubbed his temples. "I don't know, Mrs. Hudson, but Rose's life is on the line. If you don't, she will die."

"What do we do if we decipher our hint?" John asked, his voice tight and gruff. Mary patted his shoulder lightly.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "As the letter said, we cannot help each other. We must find the bodies on our own. I assume we will then be allowed to phone the police and have the proper experts examine the body."

"This is wrong." Donavon interrupted. "There are nine dead bodies out there. We should take this to NSY now and start a real investigation, not let a bunch of amateurs go around with clue cards and hope they happen upon the right victim."

"There's also a live victim out there." Molly replied, holding Mrs. Hudson's hand tightly and keeping her jaw tight in an effort not to cry. "One that we all know. She didn't have much respect for you or Phillip, but she did her best to help the rest of us. Do you want her death on you conscious like Sherlock's used to be? It'll be worse this time. She'll actually be dead and she won't be able to come back."

Anderson closed his eyes, drawing in deep breaths. "We can't let this leave this room, Sally." He finally said, slipping his card into his pocket. "Ms. Creekwood was never that nice, but she came to a few meetings after I got fired. She didn't scoff at the more ridiculous theories, and she never called us insane for believing Sherlock was still alive."

"She was never cruel to you either, Sally." Greg pointed out. "Aside from pointing out your hypocrisy with that "I believe in Sherlock" button, she never condemned or judged you. She even baked those little biscuits for you when your mother was ill and you were upset. She's a paragon, and you'd let her die to follow protocol."

Mary chuckled. "She's not a paragon, Detective Inspector. She's impatient and grumpy. She yells more often than not. She is far too honest, brutally so, and she couldn't make a decent cuppa if her life depended on it. Also, she's a passable baker at best."

Sherlock laughed and John flushed. Fervently, his whispered something in his wife's ear, making her eyes widen in shock. Blushing, she stood. "I retract what I said about her baking."

Mrs. Hudson looked from Sherlock to John in confusion.

"John was running low on funds, so Rose made their wedding cake." Sherlock explained patiently. "She had me tinting frosting for hours, and even made a miniature version for them to freeze and eat on their one year anniversary. We didn't tell Mary because she was set on the baker she had chosen, who was, in fact, the passable pastry chef, not Rose."

"That settles it!" Molly said, trying to lighten the situation. "Anyone who can turn that lemonberry monstrosity into something edible is too precious to lose. We do this Jim's way."

Everyone chuckled, even Greg. Reluctantly, they all departed with their cards. The game was on.

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_**Please read and review.**_


	15. Chapter 15

Rose paced. She was going to kill Moriarty. She didn't know how. She didn't care how. Somehow, she was going to murder that bastard and escape. She'd strangle him with her bare hands if she had to.

He'd drugged her! Choking her until she passed out was one thing. She could handle violence. Violence was par for the course with sociopaths… eventually. Drugging was a dirty trick used by cowards and idiots. He already proved he had physical superiority over her. He didn't need to drug her. All he had to do was threaten to strangle her again and she wound have bowed down and licked his boots if he asked. She might punch him afterwards, but she wouldn't have pretended to be obedient for a little while.

Grumbling angrily, she stripped off a pillowcase and marched to the kitchen, uncaring of the rickety state of the floor. She might break her leg if she fell through, but at least she'd be able to drag herself out from a lower level. Jerking open the cutlery drawer, she shoveled every fork and spoon she could find into it and added a few apples and oranges from the fruit bowl for good measure. Moriarty was going down.

She grabbed one of the books he'd so thoughtfully provided, shoveling her hardbacks in the pillow case with the fruit and silverware. It killed her to do that to a book, but she had a feeling that the literary gods would forgive her this once. Settling in for the long haul she positioned herself beside the door and waited.

It took three hours. She was almost finished with Kevin O'Brien's _Tell Me you're Sorry_ when she heard the keys in the lock. Carefully getting to her feet, achingly aware of every movement, even the way her shadow moved in the light, she waited for the perfect moment to brain him.

"Honey! I'm home!" Moriarty called, stepping through the door. Rose waited until he started to close it behind him before swinging the pillowcase at him, screaming like a Valkyrie the entire time. Moriarty fell to his knees, blood pouring from the gash on his head. Either one of the forks had poked him or a corner of one of the hardbacks had caught him just right. Either way, there was a nice little slice right behind his ear.

Roaring, she slammed the pillowcase down again and again, doing her best to knock him out. She was so consumed that she didn't notice his hand around her ankle until he jerked her legs out from under her. Rose had just enough time to see his fist coming down before stars exploded behind her eyes and she blacked out.

* * *

"Such pretty scars. I don't know how I didn't notice them before."

That was not the voice and those were not the words that she wanted to hear when waking up. Her head was pounding. This was becoming a distressingly regular occurrence. Groaning, she tried to rub her temples, only to find that her hands were tied to the bed. Shifting her feet experimentally, she found her legs were tethered as well. If that wasn't bad enough, he'd stripped her down to her skivvies. There was little more frightening than being down to bed in nothing but your bra and panties while a certified psychopath watched over you from your bedside. Rose gave Moriarty a withering look. "Is this really necessary?"

"You tried to beat me up with a pillowcase of silverware, fruit, and literary masterpieces." Moriarty pointed out drily. "That was a first edition of _The Beautiful and the Damned_ that you destroyed, by the way. You owe me £30,000."

"You suffocated me, kidnapped me, are currently holding me hostage to get to my friends, and then knocked me out when I had the," she gave and exaggerated gasp, "_unmitigated gall _to try to escape. I think we're even."

"You're suffering and trauma is only worth £30,000? Solicitors around the world will be thrilled. Women get more than that if their boss grabs their ass."

"Those women deserve more than that. Their bosses are misogynistic pigs. You're just insane."

Moriarty laughed, sliding open a boxcutter. "That honesty is going to get you in trouble, Rosie."

"I thought I was already in trouble." Rose pulled on the ropes to make her point. "Excuse me if I don't really see how it can get worse. What are you going to do? Kill me?"

He slid the box cutter along her leg, drawing a thin line of blood. She hissed, clenching her teeth in a desperate attempt not to give him the satisfaction of a scream. "You already know you're going to die. I can't scare you with death. What I can give you is a choice. You either be a good little girl, and I'll snap your neck and wait to have my fun when you're already dead. Or I'll dismember you slowly, cauterizing the wounds so you feel ever painful slice. What do you say?"

She closed her eyes, breathing through the pain. Some twisted part of her was thankful that the boxcutter was sharp. She couldn't imagine how much that would have hurt if he'd used a dull one. "Alcohol, bandages, and antibiotic ointment. Patch that up and I might tell you."

He grinned, pulling a first-aid kit out from under the bed. "Tell me about those scars."

"I tried to kill myself."

Moriarty pressed into the wound, and she couldn't hold in the shriek. It ripped out of her throat even as her back arched off the bed. "Try again."

"Look at them." She demanded, gasping as her leg screamed with residual agony. "Straight down the arms, splitting open the veins. It's a suicide attempt."

He dug his finger into the slice, smiling while she shrieked. "I know better, Rosie. Tell the truth and shame the devil."

"Can you be shamed?" She wheezed out.

"Only rarely." He soaked a cotton ball in alcohol, wiping at the blood. "Tell me how you got those scars."

"I was a junkie." Rose admitted on a hiss. She hated herself in that moment. She wanted to stay strong. She didn't want to give in, but she had to survive. "I got lucky. A friend of mine didn't. When I found out, I went off the deep end and tried to erase my track marks."

"What happened to your friend?"

"He spent a few years in juvie. Got out when he was 19 and turned his life around. He's a social worker in New York now."

"Was he your friend or your lover?"

"Both, when I was young. He hasn't been my lover since I was fifteen."

Moriarty nodded, wetting a second cotton ball. "Good girl." He smiled, slowly dabbing at the laceration and enjoying every whispered exhale she let slide past her teeth as he drew out the sting of the alcohol on her open leg. "Bubba, correct? Such a southern name."

"We are from Louisiana."

"How did you end up in London?"

"Do I really have to tell you? Or do you already know and this is just a sick power play?"

"Go with the power play. It's more… me."

"My father and I moved to Swansea to take over his uncle's funeral parlour. After a few years, Daddy bought out a run-down parlour here in London and sent me to fix it up. I did, then I stayed because I like it here."

"And because of Lestrade."

"Greg was a big part of it." She admitted, sighing contentedly as he rubbed in the antibiotic ointment. It was cool and soothing after the alcohol. "Another part was simply because I'd finally realized that I _could_ be on my own. I spent years afraid that, if I ever left Daddy and Pop, I'd relapse." She paused, fear for her fathers flashing through her. "Are my parents alright?"

"They have no part in this." Moriarty assured her, oddly tender as he wrapped gauze around her leg. "You are a means to an end. I don't care about any bit of your life that doesn't involve Sherlock Holmes or his pathetic little family."

"Yet you invaded _my _place of business. A business that no one in Sherlock's life has any part of."

"As I said, a means to an end."

She nodded, dropping her head back. "How about a little _Silence of the Lambs_?"

"Quid pro quo, Clarice?" She nodded again. He laughed. "Since you're the one tied up, does that make you Hannibal?"

"I may be imprisoned, but you're the monster."

"Touché." He sat back. "I have already asked you," Moriarty stopped to count, "four questions, you are allowed the same amount before we begin our back-and-forth."

"Yay. It's Twenty Questions: Psychopath Edition." She grinned at her own silly joke. The tiny, almost nonexistent part of herself that was still capable of logic helpfully let her know that she was losing it. "What was your childhood like?"

"I grew up in foster care, much as you did. The same sort of environment. I wasn't able to get out though. Not until I was sixteen when I murdered the director of the group home." He smiled grimly. "He crawled into my bed one too many times."

"I'm sorry." She murmured, surprised to find she actually meant it. "In many ways, I was blessed. Bubba protected me from a lot of the more horrible things that could have happened."

He nodded, leaning forward. "Are you religious?"

"I thought I had four questions before you started demanding answers from me again."

"Demanding? I could swear this was a friendly conversation."

"In friendly conversation, one party isn't usually fastened to the bedposts." She shook the bars to make her point.

He shrugged. "Normally I don't have friendly conversations with people who have tried to kill me."

"I wasn't trying to kill you. I was trying to escape." She blanched. "Sorry. That was a lie. Part of me wanted to kill you. I'm not sure I would have stopped before your head resembled a smashed watermelon. What did you do after you killed the director of your group home?"

"I wandered the streets, started selling drugs, eventually I found a mentor, of sorts. He taught me about all sorts of crime. Eventually, he let me out on my own and I am now the wonderful consulting criminal you all know and love. Are you religious?"

"Not particularly. I believe in a higher power, but, to be perfectly honest, I'd rather carve out my own eyes with a rusty spoon before I worshipped anything even remotely resembling the Abrahamic god. Who was this mentor?"

"No one I feel at liberty to mention. Why so much hatred for Judeo-Christian beliefs?"

"Daddy, Pop, and I were leaving a restaurant. We were celebrating my year of sobriety and this woman just walked up and slapped Pop across the face. She called him sick and said that he and Daddy were abominations and that they were going to hell for their sodomy. I was angry, and told her that she should learn to follow Matthew 7:5 before she attacked people on the street. So she slapped me and called me, and I quote, a 'hedonistic little bitch who will end up the lapdog for some dyke and get passed around as a party favor like the slut you are.' I nearly strangled her." Rose admitted. "I saw red and the next thing I know, Pop is pulling me off and Daddy is dragging me back and someone called the cops."

"What did the cops do?"

"As soon as they found out that she hit me first, they told her that she had the option of letting it go or getting charged with assault of a minor." She sighed, letting her head roll to the side. "I know not all Christians or Muslims or Jews are like that, but I can't let myself follow a religion that has so many members filled with that much hatred."

"Fair enough. It's a logic issue for me."

She smiled wryly. "Bullshit. It's because some part of you believes that any higher power that allows the abuse you suffered to continue isn't worthy of belief or worship."

He laughed, pushing a strand of blond hair back from her forehead. "You may be right."

"I am right." Rose closed her eyes, adrenaline running down and exhaustion overtaking her. "Why crime? You're frighteningly intelligent. You could have cured cancer or found a way to support human life on Mars. Instead you're teaching people how to kill and helping smugglers? How does that make sense?"

"Are you really asking? Or do you already know?"

"I have a theory."

Moriarty smiled, shaking his head. "Enlighten me."

"Revenge." She said simply. "Society, with all its rules and protections, failed you. So you fight against it, working on the side of the law that actually provided some measure of relief for you. Did you ever use the drugs you sold?"

"Not once."

"Why not?"

"I didn't want to dull my mind. Will you ever ask Sherlock for your ring back?"

"No. I don't need it anymore. There are horrible people in this world." She gave him a meaningful look. "There are so many more people who are decent and good, though. People who spend their entire lives trying to make the world just a little bit better. As long as I can keep meeting them, I don't need the ring."

"You truly think I'm horrible?"

"Theft. Murder. Kidnapping." She ticked off his crimes. "And those are just the felonies."

"Robin Hood. Vigilantes. Parents who take their children from abusive spouses." He rebutted. "They all commit crimes, but they do good."

"What good have you done, Jim? Who of the poor have you fed with your ill-gotten gains? Who have you taken off the streets that hurt people more than you do? Who have you stolen from a situation worse than the one they found themselves in?" She shook her head. "You're no vigilante. You're who the vigilante targets."

"Would you like me if I was a vigilante?"

"I like Sherlock, and he's murdered Magnussen."

"You have an odd set of morals, Rosie."

She smiled, settling into sleep, relieved that she'd get to slip into slumber without the aid of a sedative or lack of oxygen this time. "At least I have morals, Jim. Go away. I want to visit the land of zzz's."

"Good night, Rosie." She could have sworn she felt him press a soft kiss to her forehead. It made her shudder. "I'll see you in the morning. I'll make waffles."

* * *

"Rosie! Rosie! Dear lord, child, wake up!"

"Mrs. Hudson?" Rosie blinked her eyes open. "Mrs. Hudson!" She tried to jerk up, only to find that she was still trussed up like a chicken. "What happened? Why are you here?"

"That awful man kidnapped me when I went to find my body?" Mrs. Hudson shuddered, starting to untie the ropes at Rose's wrists.

Rose furrowed her brow. "Your body? Have you been tippling again, Louise?"

"Hush." Mrs. Hudson pulled off the first rope and set to work on Rose's leg. "It's part of his game. If we wanted to find you alive, we each had to decipher a clue and find a dead body before the week was out."

"Why didn't you take anyone with you?" Rose asked, reaching over to start on her other wrist.

"If I had, he would have murdered you. We weren't allowed any help, not even from each other."

"How many people?"

"Eight in total. Sherlock, John, Gregory, Molly, Mycroft, those two awful people that work with Gregory, and I all had our own bodies to find." She tsked rubbing at the red welts on Rose's skin. "You poor dear. What has he done to you?"

"I brained him with a pillowcase full of cutlery and fruit and books so he tied me up."

"Rosie!"

"What? Was I just supposed to sit around and hope he didn't suddenly decide to turn me into soup?"

Mrs. Hudson gasped. "He's a cannibal!"

Rose sighed, sitting up and stretching muscles that had been still for too long. "No, Louise. I was just being dramatic."

"Considering the situation, this is hardly the time for drama, young lady."

"Yes ma'am."

She tsked, patting Rose's knee. "Did you really hit him with a pillowcase?"

"Yep."

Mrs. Hudson laughed. "You are spirited, I'll give you that." The landlady sobered, sitting down heavily. "What do you think he's going to do with us?"

"Capture everyone that has one of those clue cards, then burn this place to the ground with us locked inside." She didn't want to be so blunt, but Louise deserved the truth. She needed to understand the full extent of the danger they were in. "We've got to get out of here before anyone else deciphers their clue."

"I am surprised he doesn't have anyone else yet. Of course, my clue was exceedingly easy. 'Go to the place you first met your husband.' I was expecting another clue, in keeping with this scavenger hunt theme he's using." Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "I should have expected a trap."

Rose finished setting herself free, working her legs to gain circulation. "Give me a minute to get my blood flowing again, and we'll work our way to the kitchen. I'll make us some coffee and we'll gorge ourselves on the cookies he left us."

"That sounds nice, dear. But I think you should leave the coffee to me."

"Oh for goodness sake!" Rose grinned, an odd sense of normality encroaching with Mrs. Hudson's presence. "My coffee is better than my tea!"

* * *

_**Please read and review.**_


	16. Chapter 16

_**I-am-Sherlocked-82: I'm glad you liked them!**_

* * *

"Good evening, ladies."

Mrs. Hudson scowled, sullenly poking at the frozen tray of something that was supposed to be lasagna. She'd been put out since Rose had to, reluctantly, admit the reason that there everything was made out of plastic. Wrinkling her nose, Rose pushed her own plate of "lasagna" away. "Don't mind her. She's ticked because we're not allowed real plates, silverware, or cookware."

"If I could trust you not to try to crush my skull, I'd let you have a baking sheet." Moriarty replied calmly, sitting at the table and helping himself to Rose's untouched supper. "As it stands, you can have plastic."

"I'm sure if I sawed enough, I could slit your throat with one of the butterknives." Rose said, grabbing a bundle of celery from the fridge. She was already miserable. She might as well diet to complete the trifecta of hell she found herself in.

He grinned, splitting the layers open and scraping out a bit of ricotta cheese. "I'll shoot you full of sedative again."

Mrs. Hudson slammed her fork down. "This is sickening. How can we sit here and pretend this is normal conversation? He _kidnapped_ us, Rosie! And you are making jokes and laughing with him? Have you resigned yourself to Stockholm Syndrome so quickly?"

"What choice do we have, Mrs. Hudson?" Rose demanded, tossing a celery stalk at Moiriarty's head when he mentioned something about making popcorn. "We are stuck here. We have nothing to use for a weapon. Even together, we can't overpower him. And, even if one of us could pick locks, which we can't, we have nothing to pick them with. Our greatest chance for survival is to make the best of this situation until we can't any longer!"

"This. Is. Sick." Mrs. Hudson reiterated, stomping from the room and slamming the bedroom door closed behind her. Her positioning made it to where Jim didn't see the sly wink she sent Rose as she stomped away.

Rose didn't let on that she'd seen the small movement. Instead, she sat at the table, biting into the celery. "You know, that bedroom is going to be pretty crowded if you kidnap anyone else."

* * *

"You're sucking up to a sociopath!"

"You suck up to Sherlock! The only difference is this sociopath holds our lives in his hands instead of just living with us!"

"That's different! Sherlock has a conscious! That monster knows only greed and violence!"

"Sherlock murdered someone!"

"Would you both shut up!" Moriarty yelled from the couch, rubbing his temples against the encroaching headache. "I can't take much more!"

"Sorry Jim." Rose said automatically, frightening herself with how easily the obedient role slipped into place. It reminded her of the rough tricks she used to service when she was high.

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes. "See! That is what I mean. If anyone else had said that to you, you'd be screaming at them."

"I'm too busy trying to deal with you screaming at me!" Rose shouted, turning her back to Moriarty so Mrs. Hudson could see the small smile she was flashed. "Let me try to get this through your thick head! He," she pointed back at Moriarty, "is ready and willing to kill! A little sucking up can't hurt when it might keep us alive a little longer!"

"I will kill you if you both don't shut it!" Moriarty stood from the couch, pulling out his keys. "I'm going for a walk. You both better behave when I get back or I'll slit your throats just for some peace!"

Rose and Mrs. Hudson waited in silence until the locks tumbled back into place behind him. As soon as they were sure he was far away, they collapsed with relieved sighs. Mrs. Hudson looked over at Rose, smiling slightly. "Is it working?"

"I think so."

"Are you sure you can do this?"

"We don't have a choice."

Mrs. Hudson teared up, pulling Rose into a hug. "I'm so sorry, Rose. You were supposed to be safe with me."

"Nowhere is safe, Mrs. Hudson." Rose patted her landlady's black, cooing softly as she tried to soothe the weeping woman. "I'll never regret moving into 221C. No matter what comes with it, my life is infinitely better from living with you."

* * *

Moriarty returned with Anderson in tow. Mrs. Hudson was taking a nap while Rose read on the couch. She glanced up from the book, rolling her eyes. "At least you didn't have to drug this one."

"He's a bit cowardly. I didn't even have to threaten him." Moriarty replied with a smirk, pushing Anderson to sit on the couch next to her. "Did you make nice with Mrs. Hudson?"

She shook her head. This was going to complicate things, but she couldn't let Moriarty know that. Patting Anderson's knee, she stood up. "I'll go make some coffee. Three sugars, light cream, right Phillip?"

Anderson looked up at her in shock. "How do you know that? Nice shiner, by the way."

"I made coffee at one of those meetings you host." She explained. "And at least I fought. Jim? Would you like some coffee?"

"Thank you, Rosie. Three sugars and-"

"Fill it to the brim with cream. I know." She said breezily, carefully picking her way to the kitchen. This perverse domestic scenario they found themselves in was starting to make sense. She half-wondered if Moriarty even wanted to kill them. He would, of course, but some of the people he was targeting had very minor roles in Sherlock's life. Sally didn't even like the consulting detective, and Anderson had turned into an obsessive fan at best. This wasn't about revenge, though that's what Moriarty would eventually use them for.

No. This was about jealousy. Jim and Sherlock were alike in so many ways. The way they acted, the way they thought, their process of reasoning, even their talents, were eerily similar. Under different circumstances, if Jim had grown up in any sort of home that showed him love and compassion, a home that had nurtured him instead of degraded him, perhaps he would have turned out differently. Perhaps some part of him _wants _to be different, and that's the real reason he was doing this. The part of Moriarty's mind that was still a scared, traumatized little boy just begging for a family thought that maybe, just maybe, if he stole the people Sherlock had chosen for his own little family, he could use them to create his own.

"It worries me when you're quiet. It reminds me of a toddler. If they're silent, they're up to something." Jim murmured, leaning against the kitchen doorway.

Rose grinned. "When I'm quiet, I'm thinking. That's why I'm rarely quiet." She carefully measured grounds into the little paper filter. There were times she missed the Kuerig she'd had in Swansea. It was so much easier, especially in the mornings. Turn it on, pop in the container, push the button, and you were ready to go. "Why are you really doing this, Jim?"

"Do you have another theory?"

"I'm working on one."

He hopped up on the counter next to her, yanking her up to sit beside him. "Will you tell me, or should I guess?"

"Start thinking, Jim." She ordered softly. "Not about the big picture or the ultimate goal, but about those tiny, obscure, soft-science based reasons that you'd normally put down to folly or ignorance. Think about those. Tell me about those, and I'll tell you my theory."

"You're trying to give me humanity, Rosie." Moriarty said quietly, tucking a blond curl behind her ear. "I don't have any."

"Everyone has humanity, Jim. It's part and parcel of being human."

"So you don't believe in monsters?"

Rose sighed, resting her head back against the cabinets. "There's an crime show in America called Criminal Minds. I'm not sure if it plays over here. I don't really watch a lot of TV."

"Telly."

"Whatever. Pop and I used to watch it together. I'll even catch a show on Hulu now and again. One of the shows I watched had an interesting explanation about serial killers. One of the characters, I don't remember which one, compared being serial killer to being a gun. He said, 'His genetics load the gun; his psychology aims it; and his environment pulls the trigger.'" She turned her head slightly, taking comfort in the sound of the sputtering coffee maker behind them. "You were born to be a gun, just like Sherlock and Mycroft. Your psychology, and theirs, aimed you toward certain people and a specific life. But their environment led to toward more legal lines of work, using their genetics and psychology to help people, while your environment pulled the metaphorical trigger."

"I'm confused. Am I a human or a gun?"

"Both. You're a human weapon, capable of great horrors or great good. You chose the former, and you continue to choose that path every day. I want to know why."

"Why haven't you? Our environment was the same."

"Because very few people are born to be a gun, and I wasn't one of them."

"What were you born to be?"

Rose shrugged. "I don't know. It's much easier to see the truth of someone else than it is to see the truth of yourself."

"Search for your own truth." Moriarty said after a moment of silence. "I'll search for mine. We'll have a little confession session when we find it."

"Deal."

* * *

Rose finished her whispered conversation with Anderson and Mrs. Hudson just as they heard the keys in the lock. They were running out of time. It had been five days. It wouldn't be long until the week was up and they'd all die. Nothing in her doubted that Greg was out there frantically searching for them, but they couldn't wait that long. They couldn't risk anyone else being captured.

"Are you ready?" Rose asked Mrs. Hudson as the doorknob turned. Mrs. Hudson nodded, steeling herself for the last act of their play. "Here goes nothing. I'm just trying to keep us alive!" She shouted, pacing in front of the couch as Jim walked in. "How long do you think we would have survived if we all annoyed him with constant crying and screaming and shouting? Huh? How long? Have you never heard the phrase that you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar?"

"Am I supposed to be the fly in this scenario?" Moriarty asked tiredly.

"Would you just shut the fuck up!" Rose screamed, all her anger and frustration being poured into this performance. She'd been kidnapped from her business, stolen from her loved ones, been throttled, drugged, and beat up, and, to top it all, she'd had to playing simpering toady to a psycho who, unfortunately, she actually felt a bit of pity for. It was driving her up the freaking wall and she was tired of being sweet. "We wouldn't be in this mess if you had played by your own rules! Instead of letting them find the bodies and then giving them a clue to come find me, you kidnapped them! Now we're all stuck in this rathole!"

"You're the one playing sycophant to this murderer!" Mrs. Hudson screamed. "He's murdered eight people and you fetch him coffee!" A nasty scowl came over the landlady's face. "That's all your good for. Fetching coffee for monsters. How often did you fetch and carry for that man who wanted to rape you? Or the dirty old men you let violate you? How often did you bow before those atrocities to human nature you call parents?"

"Probably about the same amount of time you got on your knees for your murdering drug-runner of a husband."

Mrs. Hudson slapped Rose, leaving a bright red handprint across her cheek. Rose lunged toward her, only to find Moriarty holding her back while Anderson grabbed onto Mrs. Hudson. The two men "stopped" the women from fighting. As soon as Jim had Rose back a safe distance, she abruptly changed her stature.

Leaning back to create a bit of slack, she drove her elbow backwards into Moriarty's ribs. He doubled over and she turned, bringing her knee up until it connected with his nose. It was time like this that she was grateful for the little tricks she'd learned before Daddy and Pop took her in. She never thought they'd be useful in the nice, normal life she'd planned for herself. Then again, she didn't have a nice normal life anymore. Mycroft was right. Her life stopped being normal the moment she asked Greg out for a coffee.

Thinking of Greg bolstered her resolve, and she slammed her fist down into the nape of Jim's neck again and again until he lost conscious. "Check his pockets for keys and anything else that might get us out of here."

Anderson nodded, scuttling around her as Rose stumbled back, trying not to vomit. Damn her pity. She'd never had this problem with tricks. "Shh. Shh." Mrs. Hudson soothed, pressing Rose's head against her chest and stroking her hair. "It's all over, dear. You were marvelous. It's all over."

Rose nodded shakily. Anderson pulled the keys out Moriarty's pocket with a triumphant shout, along with a pocket knife, a mobile, and a bit of money. "There are over twenty keys here. We'll never find the right one before he comes around."

"Then I guess you better start trying them." Rose snapped angrily. "Help him, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be right back."

Mrs. Hudson rushed to the door, flitting nervously around Anderson as he started trying key after key. Rose stomped to the bedroom and dug under the mattress, for the scraps of rope Moriarty had used to tie her up. Heading back to the sitting room, she flipped him onto his stomach and hog-tied him, binding his wrists to his ankles. He woke up just as she was tying the last knot. "I don't want to hurt you anymore, but if you scream or try to get out of this, I'll knock your head against the floor so hard that coherent thought will be a distance memory to you, even when you do come to. Open up."

"No."

Rose grimaced, but slammed his head down just hard enough to cause him to gasp in pain. She quickly slipped the last bit of rope in his mouth and tied it behind his head. He grumbled angrily around the bit of hemp. She rolled her eyes, stalking into a kitchen with for a dish cloth and shoving it in his mouth. "I am sorry." She murmured. "I know you don't believe me, but I am."

"Got it!" Anderson exclaimed, yanking the door open. He and Mrs. Hudson rushed out, running down the stairs.

Rose looked down at Moriarty, the damnable pity welling up in her heart. "You asked for my truth, Jim. Here's my truth. You're a gun. I'm a rubber bullet. You can use me to hurt others, but the worst I'll ever let you do is break a rib. You can never use me to kill."

She pressed a kiss to his forehead, mimicking the gentle gesture he'd used on her the other day. She understood it now. He needed hope and balance. He was more like Sherlock than either of them liked to admit. That was the real reason he'd kidnapped her. It was the real reason he hadn't killed her immediately. He wanted everything Sherlock had, everything he'd been denied, including balance. She'd love to provide it for him, but she was only one person, and her allegiance was with the detective, not the criminal.

"Come on, Rosie!" Mrs. Hudson yelled, peering around the doorframe. Rose nodded, forcing herself not to look back as she ran out, grabbing Mrs. Hudson by the elbow sprinting down the stairs. Moriarty was going to jail. They'd find the nearest police officer, tell him where to find Moriarty, and get back to Baker Street in time for supper. Mycroft would make sure Moriarty never saw the light of day.

"Stop right there, little ladies." Rose and Mrs. Hudson came to a sudden stop. She cursed under breath. She should have expected Moriarty would have people posted outside. A common street thug had a knife to Anderson's throat. "The good professor wouldn't like you running out on him. Perhaps I should open this one up as a warning."

"No!" Rose pushed Mrs. Hudson behind her, holding up her hands. "No. The good professor would be even more put out if you slit that one's throat. You know who the people you're guarding are."

"Friends of Sherlock Holmes."

She nodded frantically. "That's right. And you know that these two were brought in later. They're more important to him. I'm just bait for the rest. Most of them think I'm already dead. If you want to send a message, slit my throat. No one that the professor is after will know I'm dead. They won't care, except for Lestrade. I'm just a neighbour. Slit my throat, and take these two back to the professor. He'll be less upset about me than if you killed some of Sherlock's actual friends."

"But…"

"No buts." Rose was desperate, and she was letting it seep into her voice. "No buts. I'm Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade's girlfriend. That's why the professor took me. He knew that Greg would go to Sherlock for help and that all of Sherlock's friends would rally to help as well. I'm nothing. I'm nobody. I'm just bait. These people matter to Sherlock Holmes and, therefore, to the professor. Kill me. I don't matter."

The thug thought for a moment, and monumental task judging by the way his brow furrowed. "Alright then.

He held out one hand and pushed Anderson forward with the other. Rose felt Anderson slip something in her palm as he passed and she was yanked forward. She felt the small notch on the pocket knife's blade and nudged it open Her stomach revolted, but she forced herself to stay still. Before the thug could bring the knife up to her own throat, she dropped to the ground, stabbing the knife between his ankle and Achilles tendon. Ripping backward, the knife came free and the thug crashed on top of her.

"You bitch!" He screamed, driving the knife into her hip. Rose cried out ,rolling away. The knife tore out, leaving a gaping wound in her hip. Anderson quickly stripped off his shirt, shoving it in the hole to help staunch the bleeding. "Rosie? Can you move? We need to move, Rosie!"

She was sobbing too hard to do anything more than nod. Brusquely, Anderson yanked her to her feet. "Mrs. Hudson!" He barked, slinging Rose's arm over his shoulder. "Hold the packing in place while we move. Rosie, this is going to hurt like hell, but you've got to walk. I cannot carry you." He kicked the thug, who was trying to reach for them, in the head. "We've got to go."

Rose screeched in pain with each tiny movement they made. It was slow going, and, with the neighbourhood they found themselves, no one was offering to help. "No taxis. No 999." Rose managed to gasp out. "We don't talk to or trust anyone until we get to Baker Street."

"We need to get you to the hospital." Anderson argued.

"We don't know who might be working for Moriarty." She pointed out, limping along a little easier. "We have the bleeding slowed. Baker Street. Sherlock will be there, probably John and Greg too. We know we can trust them."

Anderson growled, practically dragging her down the street. "Greg will murder me if anything happens to you. Mycroft too. You didn't see what he did to Donovan. We're going to the hospital." He pulled out Moriarty's mobile, bypassing the lock screen to punch in the emergency number. "I'm sorry, Rosie. You got us this far, but you need to trust me now."

"Listen to him, Rosie." Mrs. Hudson urged. "You're seeping through the shirt. You'll bleed to death if we wait to get you to Baker Street."

Rosie didn't reply. Her vision was blurring around the edges. A combination of blood loss and shock was going to make her pass out. She couldn't even warn them that it was about to happen. She dropped suddenly, causing Anderson to curse. He tossed the mobile to Mrs. Hudson, laying Rose out on the sidewalk and pressing the shirt tighter against her side. "Find the nearest cross street. Tell them where we are and to call Lestrade." He pulled back the shirt just enough to get a view of the stab wound. "Tell them if they don't get here in the next fifteen minutes, she's going to die.

* * *

_**Please read and review.**_


	17. Chapter 17

_**I-am-Sherlocked-82: Lol. Too be honest, I ran out of ideas for how to continue. I had to stop there. I'm glad you like it!**_

_**Nilfheim89: Thank you! I work hard on making my OC's realistic and relatable. My biggest fear is creating a Mary Sue. I hope you like the new chapters.**_

_**Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has followed, favorited, or reviewed this story (or all three, you amazing people.) We're nearing the end here. Maybe two or three more chapters and we're done. I hope you've enjoyed the ride so far.**_

_**Love, **_

_**J.M.**_

* * *

"Lacerated spleen. Two blood transfusions. Eight hours on the operating table, during which time you died, twice. Pray tell, Ms. Creekwood, what the hell were you thinking?"

Rose blinked her eyes open, groaning at the pain lancing through her side. She was in the hospital. At least she was in a bed this time. "Mornin', Mycroft. I'm glad to see you're alive as well. How am I? Just great. Spent the last week with a sociopath and got stabbed, but hey, I prefer you yelling at me for getting Louise and Phillip out alive. It's a much better way to wake up than normal, boring 'congratulations for not being murdered by my brother's arch-nemesis'."

"This is no time for sarcasm, Rose!" Mycroft scowled down at her. "Do you have any idea how worried we were? Lestrade had to be given a sedative after he nearly strangled your surgeon!"

Rose's eyes widened and she struggled to sit up. "He what? Where is he? Is he ok? Is he in trouble?"

He easily pushed her back down. "Lestrade is fine. He's back at Baker Street with Sherlock and John, sleeping it off."

"And Moriarty?" She asked, reluctantly sinking into the pillows.

"Gone by the time officers reached him. They found the criminal who stabbed you, however. He's recovering at an unknown location which he will never leave."

She grinned, eyes ghosting over the numerous IV's she was hooked to. Antibiotics, saline, and morphine. She'd have to get rid of that last one .An addict was always an addict, no matter how long they'd been clean. "Works for me."

"The trauma care unit was very impressed with your work. How did you know about the Achilles tendon?"

"Lots of bad TV when I was young. To be honest, I wasn't even sure it would work, but it was either that or kill him."

"And you didn't want to kill him?"

"I didn't want to kill anyone."

"You're too soft-hearted, Rose."

She shrugged, wincing as the move pulled the stitches on her side. "I can't kill, Mycroft. I'm not a spy, or a cop, or a soldier. I'm a funeral director. I deal with them after they die. I don't cause the deaths."

"You could have been the one dead." He pointed out, pulling a chair up to the edge of the bed.

She reached over, patting his hand where it rested on the rail. "But I didn't. I'm sorry I scared you. You've got to know that I didn't mean to."

"I know you didn't." He murmured, resting his other hand on top of hers. "I am very proud of you, Rose. Mrs. Hudson and Mr. Anderson informed me of what happened. It was an ingenious plan."

"It was desperation wrapped in stupidity." She felt sleep coming over her. She didn't want to know how high they had the morphine dosage. "I was just lucky that it worked."

Mycroft smiled. "Go to sleep, Rose. I need to call you fathers… and Lestrade… and Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, Ms. Hooper, Mr. Anderson, and Ms. Donovan. This room will be very crowded the next time you awaken."

She nodded, flinching slightly. "Do your goldfish a favor, Mycroft?"

"What do you need?"

"Don't let them all in at once. That's too many people."

"I'll do my best, Rose. Sleep. Now. The more you rest, the sooner you'll heal."

"Yes sir."

* * *

"Ms. Rose? Ms. Rose? Are you awake?"

"I am now, little man." Rose murmured, smiling at the sound of Josh's voice. She didn't bother to open her eyes. They were too heavy. "What's up?"

"You're not going to die, right?"

"Not today." She struggled to force her lids open. It was just Josh there. Well, Josh and the three bodyguards Mycroft had assigned her. "Are you ok?"

"I'm fine."

"Good. Did Mr. Holmes send some people to watch out for you?"

"Yeah. He's in the waiting room. He's not so bad. He plays video games with me and he's teaching me how to skate board."

"Awesome!" Rose grinned, her eyes still closed. She couldn't seem to get them open, no matter how hard she tried. "Just make sure you wear pads. We don't want you to get hurt."

One of the guards chuckled. "You're lying in a hospital bed after being stabbed, ma'am. I don't think you can lecture someone on staying safe."

"Bite me." Rose murmured. She yawned widely. "I'm sorry, little man, but I'm still really tired. Do you mind if I go back to sleep."

"The cranky Mr. Holmes says that you're supposed to sleep as much as possible." She felt Josh kiss her cheek. "Get better, Ms. Rose. I'll take care of Dad for you."

"Thanks, Josh. I'll make us a big dinner as soon as I get better, ok?"

"Can you make Shepard's pie?"

"I can make it the way my daddy taught me to make it. I think it's made a little differently here."

"That's ok. Go to sleep, Ms. Rose."

"Good night, Josh."

* * *

"You're coming back to Boston."

"No. She's coming back to Swansea."

"If she comes back to Boston, she'll have an entire ocean between her and the bastard that did this! She'll only have a train ride between them if she goes back to Swansea!"

"Oi!" Rose had a headache, and only an extremely small part of it was because she'd started weaning herself off the morphine. The rest came from the fact that her fathers couldn't stop arguing even with their daughter in the hospital. "In case y'all forgot, I'm a 26 year-old woman, not the 15 year-old you adopted! I'm more than capable of making my own choices and I'm staying in London."

"Like hell you are!" They both exclaimed.

"You're not safe here!" Daddy shouted. "That maniac is still out there!"

"What if he kills you next time, Rosie?" Pop asked, near tears. "You need to be as far away from London as we can possibly get you."

Rose grinned, despite her fathers' obvious distress. "Do you two realize that this is the first time you've agreed with each other since you split up?"

Daddy and Pop looked at each other, flushing slightly. "We're not that bad."

"Either you're silent or you're arguing." Rose pointed out. "You haven't seen me in three years, Pop, yet, on Christmas day, when I wanted you to meet the man I love and his son, you were more interested in yelling at Daddy. And Daddy, I'm here, in the hospital, after being _stabbed_, and you're fighting with Pop about whether or not I go to Swansea or Boston."

"Does it bother you that much, baby girl?" Pop asked, settling on the side of her bed. Daddy's expression seemed to ask the same question. Neither of them noticed that Daddy's hand automatically settled on Pop's shoulder in silent support, or that Pop's hand automatically reached up to cover Daddy's.

She did, and she wasn't saying a damn thing. "Of course it bothers me. You two saved my life and turned me into the woman I am today. Without you two, I would have ended up a strung out hooker who'd OD'd by the time I was 20. Instead I'm 26 years-old, I run part of a successful business, I've slept with a grand total of three people since you took me in, and I was serious about every single one of them, and, aside from this," she gestured to the IV she was hooked to, "I haven't used in eleven years.

"I would _never_ have made it to this point if you guys hadn't taken me in and showed me a better life. So to see you constantly fighting, usually over the stupidest shit, when you used to be so happy and in love and utterly devoted to each other, is heartbreaking. Every time it happens, it makes me wonder if everything is as fleeting and if one day I'll turn back into the drugged-up prostitute I used to be."

Pop and Daddy were crying. They split to opposite sides of the bed, leaning down to wrap her in a double hug. She curled into the embrace, a sense of euphoria coming over her. She'd missed this. They used to do this every night when she went to bed. They'd come in just before bedtime and Daddy would bring a new book on some esoteric subject, and they'd read a bit together, then talk about what it might mean, then they'd both lean down and give her a hug, just like this, before they went to their own room for the night. It was like having a piece of her childhood brought back to her.

"We're so sorry, little bit." Daddy murmured, kissing her forehead.

"We never meant to make you feel like that." Pop added, giving his own kiss. Their hands twisted together over her stomach, and the small part of Rose that always hope they'd get back together flared to life.

Daddy pushed her hair back from her forehead, smiling softly. "The truth is you're stronger than we ever thought you could be."

"You've turned into this beautiful, talented, intelligent, amazing woman that we couldn't be prouder to call our daughter." Pop said.

"You're brave, and strong, and wonderful in so many ways. I hate the fact that you're hurt. But the fact that it happened because you were trying to protect others is so incredible that I'll never be able to tell you how amazed I am by you."

"You've turned your life around and became an astonishingly loving person who gives so much of herself to the people around her that it's humbling. You don't know how many people you've helped just by doing the small, simple things that make you who you are."

Rose started crying too, holding her parents' hands. "I couldn't have done any of it without you. I don't know what really happened between you guys, but I know it was more than what you told me. There wouldn't be so much anger otherwise. I just wish you guys could fix it. I know you probably won't get back together, but if you could just be civil with each other, at least while you're around me, I'd really appreciate it."

"Of course, baby girl." Pop whispered.

"We'll try our best." Daddy amended, making Pop laugh.

"I forgot you did that."

"Did what?"

"The honesty thing. Every time I exaggerated, you'd always step in and correct me. Not in a bad way." Pop actually blushed, and Rose fought not to giggle. She remembered this too, the way Pop would always flush while he was trying to pay Daddy a compliment or be mushy. "Just made it sound more reasonable."

Daddy laughed, leaning over to give him a kiss before he realized what he was doing. Both men awkwardly looked away while Rose beamed from her place between them. A nurse knocked on the door, interrupting their little family moment. "I'm sorry, but I need to take Ms. Creekwood's vital signs. You can come back in fifteen minutes."

"We're going to go have lunch, baby girl." Pop said decisively, softly nudging Daddy's elbow. Smiling wickedly, he leaned down and whispered in her ear, "We'll sneak you a chocolate chip cookie when we come back."

Rose laughed, giving her each of her father's a kiss on the cheek. "Ok, Pop. You and Daddy behave yourselves."

The nurse waited patiently until the doors slid closed behind them. "You're lucky. I've seen parents who don't love their biological children that much."

Rose shrugged, watching Pop sling an arm over Daddy's shoulder as they walked down the hall. "I know. I've got awesome dads."

* * *

Rose glanced up from her book, surprised to see John and a very pregnant Mary waddling in. "Hello."

Mary pushed her husband forward, shooting him a warning glare. "My husband is here to apologize. He only just told me about your little altercation while Sherlock was injured."

Rose had to bite her tongue so she wouldn't point out that Sherlock wouldn't have been injured if Mary hadn't shot him. She had a feeling Sherlock hadn't let them know that she knew that particular detail. "It's no big deal. It was months ago."

"And he's been a prat ever since." Mary insisted, slowly lowering herself into the chair next to Rose's bed. "Well? Gone on, John. Apologize to the girl."

John stared at his feet, sullen and pouting. Mary threw one of Rose's jello cups at him. "John!"

"Hey!" Rose protested. "That was blue jello! I like blue jello! Do you know how hard it is to get blue jello around here? They normally give me that disgusting green stuff with bits of pineapple in it!"

John shuddered. "I lived off that stuff for a week after I was injured. It's revolting."

"You're telling me. I don't even like pineapple, but they keep shoving it at me."

"You haven't had to deal with the bouillon and water they try to pass off as chicken soup, have you?"

"Once." It was Rose's turn to shudder. "Daddy poured it into the plant for me."

John glanced back at the small fichus near the door. "That's fake."

"I know. But there's no bathroom in here."

"Fair enough."

She cocked her head to the side, taking her measure of the doctor. "So… we're good?"

He shrugged. "Yeah. Why not."

"Cool."

Mary laughed, digging into Rose's second blue jello. "I can't believe you two just bonded over bad hospital food."

* * *

_**Please read and review.**_


	18. Chapter 18

"Out."

"Ms. Creekwood. You're friends and family believe-"

"Out."

"Ms. Creekwood. Please. You've suffered genuine trauma and-"

"Out."

"I will not leave. You will need some sort of counseling and-"

"Let me make your position very clear to you, Doctor." Rose hissed, glaring at the mousy middle-aged man that had invaded her hospital room fifteen minutes ago. "I'm tired. I'm grumpy. I'm in withdrawal and that only makes the pain worse. I can barely stand to have my boyfriend in the same room as me, and I usually think he's the greatest thing since sliced bread. So here's how this is going to work. You're going to turn around, walk out of my room, march back to your office, and write a little 'patient refuses treatment' notation on my file. If you don't, I'll have these nice, burly gentlemen," she gestured to the bodyguards, "throw you out on your keister. Preferable from a second-story balcony. Do you understand?"

"Ms. Creekwood-"

"Ryan." She called out to the biggest of the men and one that, fortunately, had the most patience with her temper tantrums, "Please show this man the way out, and make sure he doesn't get back in."

"Sure Rosie." Ryan rumbled, grabbing the doctor by the scruff of his neck and leading him down the hall. "Sorry about this. Rosie's just a little irritable since she took herself off the pain killers. Stupid, right? Four days out from surgery and what does she do?"

Ryan's voice faded and Rose grabbed her cellphone, shooting off an angry text message to Sherlock. He was in her room in thirty minutes. "You're not dealing with this."

"It's none of your business."

"This isn't healthy."

"How many nicotine patches are you wearing right now?"

"That's beside the point, Rose, and you know it."

"No, Sherlock!" She struggled to sit up in bed, glowering at the detective. "It's not. I am handling this in my own way. The same way I handle everything."

"By burying it beneath false sweetness and feigned wisdom with small bursts of anger cropping up at random moments?" Sherlock's eyes demanded an answer, full of fury and fear as he stared down at her. "By punishing yourself by denying your body the drugs it needs to allow you to rest and heal? You are killing yourself, Rose, and you're killing the very people you profess such love and affection for while you do it!"

Rose shook her head. "I am not killing myself, or punishing myself, or burying anything! I know what happened to me! I know what I did! I accept these things as something I did in a quest for survival, but I don't want to linger on them! I want to move on with my life!"

"Rosie." He sat by her bed. Wordlessly, she motioned the two remaining guards out of the room. "I know. I know everything. Mrs. Hudson told me the entire story, not just the bits and pieces that Anderson could corroborate. I know about the gash on your leg and how you were tied to the bed for who-knows-how-long before she found you. I know how fearful she was that your false Stockholm syndrome was starting to become real. I know about how you actually cried when you had to fight Moriarty and how you opened up parts of yourself in that week with him that took Lestrade and I months to discover. You didn't cry when you sliced through that man's ankle. You didn't cry when you bashed me with a skillet. Why would you cry for Moriarty?"

"It doesn't matter that I cried." She said tightly, glancing away. "It matters that it didn't stop me from doing what I had to do to escape."

"And that is admirable. But if Jim Moriarty walked into this room right now, can you look me in the eye and honestly tell me that you'd do it again?"

Rose closed her eyes. It had been easier before she knew about his past, before she knew what he'd been through, before she knew why he was the way he was. If she was going to be completely honest, if Mrs. Hudson and Anderson hadn't been there as well, she couldn't say she would have tried to escape again. Some twisted, traitorous part of herself had wanted to stay with him. She'd wanted to fix him. She'd wanted to show him the better life that Daddy and Pop had shown her. "No."

Sherlock nodded. "That is what you need to deal with, Rose."

"Fine!" She was furious with herself to realize she was crying. Frustrated, she swiped at the tears. "Fine. Then I'll deal with it. But with you. You or Greg or Mycroft or someone that I know and trust. Not some stranger. Ok, Sherlock?" She started sobbing, desperately wishing she could curl into a ball without ripping open the stitches in her side. "Please don't make me do this with a stranger."

"I won't." He promised, awkwardly shifting to the side of the bed and patting her hand. "If you promise to talk to someone, anyone, I promise I won't send anymore strangers."

She nodded, taking deep, calming breaths to try to stop her weeping. "Thanks, Sherlock."

They sat in silence for a few moments while Rose calmed down. The guards, with Ryan returned to them, shot dirty looks into the room from time to time. Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "I don't think your protectors like me."

She laughed, giving them a little wave. "We've bonded. They don't like seeing me cry. Mainly because I send one of them off on a hunt for Jell-O afterwards."

"John mentioned you had a fondness for blue gelatin."

"Did he also mention that he and his wife either ate or destroyed the last batch I managed to get? Then Mary ate the cookie Pop managed to sneak in!"

"She is pregnant. She also says it was a very good cookie."

"It should be. Daddy made them himself."

"I need to go." Sherlock murmured, getting up from the bed. "I was in the middle of an experiment when you messaged. One thing. How did you know I sent him?"

"I recognized him as the same man Mycroft sent after you when you were shot." Rose explained.

"Why didn't you think Mycroft sent him this time?"

She grinned. "Because Mycroft isn't that stupid."

* * *

"You are not leaving that bed, Rose!"

She rolled her eyes, slowly swinging her legs to the side. "They said I could start walking again today, Anderson. I've been laid up for a week. I want to move."

"I did not spend ten minutes trying to keep you from bleeding out just so you could rip your stitches open by moving about far too soon after you were _stabbed_!" The former forensic tech yelled, trying to push her back on the bed.

Rose swatted at his hands. "No. You did it to save your own ass since you thought Greg and Mycroft would murder you if I died. Grab the walker, would you?"

Anderson crossed his arms, refusing to get the device. Ryan rolled his eyes, plopping it in front of Rose. "Do you need help getting up, Ms. Creekwood."

"If I do, I shouldn't be walking." She replied, gripping the bars tightly and heaving. Most of her weight was supported on her arms as she waited for circulation to return to her legs. Hesitantly, she took a step forward, grateful when her legs didn't collapse under her. "Thanks, Ryan, but if you call me Ms. Creekwood one more time, I'll be really cruel and make you hunt down tampons for me."

"I have six sisters. That's not cruel. That's a chance for revenge."

Rose chuckled, slowly making her way to the door. "I like you, Ryan. We're gonna be good friends. Hell, I might even tell Mycroft to keep you on after I go home."

"I'm pretty sure you won't have a choice, ma'am. Mr. Holmes is set on insuring you have someone watching over you for the rest of you natural-born life."

"Mr. Holmes can kiss my rosy red derriere."

"I've seen your derriere, ma'am. Snow has more color."

She threw her head back, a deep, honest laugh rumbling out. It had been a while since she laughed like this. Not since Christmas, when Josh smeared chocolate sauce across Greg's nose. Had that really only been two weeks ago? It felt like a lifetime. "Touche, Ryan! In all fairness, it's not like it gets a lot of sun. Anderson!" She glanced over her shoulder at the scowling man. "Come walk with us. If I overdo it, you can save my life again."

Anderson shook his head, a small smile turning up the corner of his lips. "You don't take your health seriously enough."

"And you take life too seriously." Rose countered. "Come on. Let's go bug Molly."

* * *

"Sit."

"Molly-"

"No arguing. Sit."

"I'm not a dog."

"Sit down, Rosie!"

"All you have are lab stools! I don't think those will be good for my stitches."

Molly crossed her arms, tapping her foot impatiently. "You shouldn't be out of bed yet, Rose. Greg is going to have conniption fit."

Rose rolled her eyes. "Greg hasn't even been to see me. He brought Josh once, but I fell asleep before he could get back to the room."

The coroner's face softened, and she led Rose to her office, gingerly helping her sit in the plush desk chair. Giving her most defiant glare, she waved the men out of the room and slammed the door in their faces. Ryan peered through window nervously, keeping Rose in sight at all times. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Rose ducked her head. "Not particularly."

Molly tilted Rose's face up. "Please tell me you're not as dim as I think you're being. Greg loves you."

"Sometimes love isn't enough."

"Is this about the game you played to get out of there?"

Rose flushed, turning her head away. "I don't know if it was all a game."

"Jim can be hypnotic."

"It wasn't hypnotism." She sighed, trying to find a way to put into words what she'd been struggling with since the day she woke up in the hospital. "I never forgot who he was or what he's done. But," she paused, unsure how to continue. "Did you know he was sexually abused?" Mutely, Molly shook her head. "He was a foster kid, like me, in this terrible group home, like mine. The difference is, he never had anyone to get him out. Maybe if he had, he'd be different. More compassionate, more understanding-"

"More like Sherlock." Molly finished. "Speaking as someone from the same side, who's seen who kind and loving he can be, let me explain something to you. Jim can be exactly like Sherlock when he chooses to be. Better even, because he's more adept at faking emotion." She drew in a deep breath. "It's all an act though, Rosie. He doesn't care about anything other than pain and violence and greed."

"I don't think that's true." Rose denied, rubbing her temples. "I think that's what he'd like to believe, and what he likes everyone else believing, but, underneath all that, I think he's jealous. Sherlock has the same pathology as him, but instead of turning into a homicidal maniac, Sherlock has managed to create a life and a family for himself.

"I've been a foster kid. All you want, from the moment you realize that you don't have real parents, is a family. When you're in a situation where you're beaten and raped on a daily basis, you're desperately praying, every night, for someone to come save you. Sherlock has people that save him. He has John and Mrs. Hudson and Greg and you. People who will stand by his side no matter what. I think Jim wants that too."

"You related to him." Molly realized. "Oh, Rosie. I'm so sorry. I should have realized sooner." She sat up on the desk. "Rosie. It was survival instinct. You've got to believe that. You were in a situation where death was imminent. You found a way to connect with your captor because it was the only way to get out of there without severe psychological trauma. You were in the beginning stages of Stockholm syndrome. That's all. It was your body's natural instinct to protect yourself."

"What does that say about me, Molly? What does that mean when, after a few days, I was submitting so easily?"

"You concocted and elaborate plan to catch Moriarty off guard, gave him a good kicking, tied him up, and got yourself, Louise, and Phillip out alive. Afterwards, you tore through a man's Achilles tendon and made it half a block with a lacerated spleen and a still-healing gash in your leg. That's not submission. That's survival. No one knows that better than Greg."

"Then why do I feel so guilty? And why hasn't he been to see me?"

"Maybe because you found a connection to one of your boyfriend's worst enemies and exploited it at the cost of your privacy and dignity?" Rose looked up in shock. Molly smirked. "Sherlock only thinks he's the only Mrs. Hudson talks to. You have no reason to feel guilty. As for Greg…" The coroner sighed, absently playing with her ponytail. "Greg is afraid that you're angry with him for not being there to stop you being kidnapped. He does come by, every single night, but he already feels guilty for putting you in danger. He doesn't want to risk seeing accusation in your eyes and having his guilt confirmed."

"I don't blame him though. I don't blame anyone. I had a bad feeling about Jim from the start. I just ignored it because I needed a mortician."

"I know that. You know that. Sherlock, John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Anderson, Donavon, and Mycroft all know that. Greg loves you though. Let's face it, he's a bit old-fashioned. He believes that it was his job to protect you, to watch after you. You were kidnapped and, in his mind, he sees that as failure."

Growling with frustration, Rose stood, only to crash back down when she pulled her stitches and shooting pain speared through her back. Ryan came rushing in as soon as he heard her scream "What happened?"

"She's fine." Molly said, her voice soothing and calm as she pulled Rose's hospital gown aside and check her stiches. "She just moved too fast. There should be a wheelchair just outside autopsy. Go get it. She shouldn't walk anymore today."

"I told her she shouldn't walk at all." Anderson called in. Rose glowered at him, and he quickly went back to whatever he was looking at through the microscope. Ryan rolled his eyes, but trotted off to gather the needed wheelchair.

Molly pressed on the area tenderly. "It's healing slower than expected."

"She took herself off the pain medication. It's causing more stress on her body." Anderson gleefully tattled.

Rose glowered again and Molly thumped her in the head. "I'm going to give you a shot of morphine and send orders up to your nurse to restart the drip."

"I don't need it"

"Yes, you do." Molly moved to the medicine cabinet, pulling out a small vial and sterilized hypodermic. "I know you're worried about old habits, but if we can get Sherlock through withdrawals then we can help you as well. What you need right now is as little strain on your body as possible. So, you'll accept this medicine." She grabbed Rose's arm and jabbed the needle in her vein with startling accuracy. "Then, when we get you back to your room, you'll be put back on the drip and you'll leave it alone until the doctors say otherwise. Are we clear?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Don't do that. I'm not that much older than you."

"Sorry."

Molly hummed, dabbing at the injection point. Rose felt the high coming in and fought it off as best as she could, focusing on the tiny details of Molly's office. The small orchid on the corner of her desk. The plethora of files in the in and out trays. The room started swirling and a floating feeling overtook her, muddling her mind. It was familiar and terrifying. "I don't like this, Molly." She slurred. "I don't like this."

"It's ok. It's ok." Molly murmured. Ryan came in with the wheelchair and gently maneuvered her into the seat. "You will be fine." The coroner looked up at the bodyguard. "Get her back to her room. Make sure her doctor knows about her past drug use when he restarts the drip, then call Mycroft and have him contact someone about introducing an ibogaine treatment once she's well."

"That's-"

"I know. That's not the point. Rosie has been clean for over a decade. Prolonged exposure to an opioid after that amount of time can sending her spiraling into addiction again, and ibogaine will be the quickest way to clear her system and hurry her through withdrawal."

Ryan looked down at Molly with new respect. Distantly, Rose thought she might have seen a spark of attraction, but she was too befuddled to actually concentrate on it. "I'll send along your request."

Molly nodded blushing slightly. Ryan wheeled Rose away, warning Anderson to stay put. "Ryan!" He stopped abruptly, turning the wheelchair so that he and Rose could both see Molly hanging out of her office door, bright red and looking anywhere but at them. "Would you like to have a coffee when you're off next? With me, I mean."

Rose heard, rather than saw, the smile in Ryan's voice when he replied. "It would be a pleasure, Ms. Hooper. I'll come back after Rosie is back in her room. We'll both take a break."

* * *

"She's sleeping, Mrs. Hudson."

"I know, dear. I would just like to check on her."

"They would call us if anything happened."

"I just want to check on her, Sally. Be patient. This will only take a moment."

Rose wanted to be miserable. She did. She was higher than a kite and couldn't focus on anything aside from the low drones of voices and machines. Everything seemed fuzzy and distant. She couldn't even make her mouth work. It was a horrifying feeling that she remembered all too well. Unfortunately, she had too many drugs in her system to feel the honest emotions sluggishly flowing through her mind.

Distantly, as if it were happening to another person and she was just an observant bystander, she felt Mrs. Hudson stroke a strand of hair off her forehead. "Oh, Rosie. What are they doing to you? I can barely see those beautiful green eyes."

"We need to go, Mrs. Hudson." Donovan said, moving into Rose's line of sight. They were both distorted. The morphine made it seem as if she was seeing the world through a funhouse mirror. "She needs her rest."

"I'm aware of that, Sally. I just want to check on her."

"You see her. She's fine. Let's get you home before Sherlock notices you've escaped and calls the cavalry."

Mrs. Hudson gave a dramatic huff. "Very well. I'll come by later, Rosie. Get better soon. Baker street isn't the same without you."

* * *

Someone was touching her, moving her wrist up above her head. She instinctually panicked and tried to swing out. It was slow and sluggish and barely tapped her attacker.

"Shh. Shh. It's ok, Rosie. It's just me. You were crushing your line."

The sound of Greg's voice instantly calmed her. Rose sunk back, fighting to open her eyes.

"What the hell have they done to you, sweetheart?" She felt his palm cup her cheek and leaned into the touch.

"I think her dosage is too high." She heard Brandon mutter. Rose furrowed her brow. Why was Brandon here? He should be at the parlour making sure Moriarty did try to take vengeance on Stella or Rudy. She heard the sound him messing around by the machines and cursing under his breath. "Jesus. They've got her on almost double the normal dose."

"Turn it down." Greg commanded gruffly.

"Working on it." Brandon shot back.

"How long will it take for her to come out of it?"

"A few hours at least. She'll be fine by morning."

"I'll take you back to the flat then. You can come see her in the morning."

"Are you actually going to come in this time, or are you going to wait outside like a meater."

"A what?"

Brandon gave a heavy sigh. "A coward. Rudy's going through this Victorian slang phase."

"God save you."

"So, will you be coming in, or will I be visiting Rapunzel here by myself."

"Don't let her hear you call her that."

"You're avoiding the question, Gregory."

"No."

"No, you're not avoiding the question, or no, you're not coming in?"

"Both."

"Meater." She heard a loud thwack and tried to chuckle. Nothing escaped but raspy groan. "Ow! What was that for?"

"You know exactly what that was for!"

"If you two don't stop shouting, I'm going to throw you both out." Ryan warned.

"Try it." Greg threatened. Rose weakly grabbed at his hand, trying to catch his attention.

"I think she's alert. Get me a penlight." Brandon murmured. A few seconds passed before he pried open her eyelids, shining the light in her eyes. "Jesus. There's nothing but pupil here. How long has she been back on the drip?"

"About twelve hours." Ryan responded tersely.

Rose tried blocking them out, attempting to focus on opening her eyes and talking to Greg. Feebly, she tugged on his wrist. "What is it, Rosie?" He asked, running his thumb over her cheek and the faded bruise there. "What do you need?"

She worked her mouth, trying to form something resembling a sentence. Nothing came out. Frustrated, she pulled on his wrist again. She didn't want him to leave. She wanted him to be there in the morning when she could actually function. Resolutely, she reached her other hand out, yanking on the hem of his shirt. It exhausted her. "Do you want me to sit down?"

She squeezed his wrist again, trying to pull down. Obediently, he sat on the edge of the bed. Using the last bit of her energy, she drug her hand down, twining their fingers together. Sleep came for her. Fighting it off, she was half-sure she managed to whisper "stay" before she passed out."

* * *

Rose blinked her eyes, slowly letting them adjust to the bright light shining through the windows. There was a warm body at her back and a heavy arm across her waist. She grinned, wiggling back. She'd recognize those snores anywhere. That was Greg back there. Shifting gingerly, she turned on her back, smiling at his sleeping face.

His mouth was wide open, a thin trail of drool staining the pillow under his head. He looked peaceful and adorable. Still groggy, she raised her head just enough press a soft kiss on his cheek. Blearily, his eyes blinked open. "There's my gorgeous man." She rasped out. She idly wondered how long it had been since she had something to drink. "Good morning."

"Good morning." He breathed out, still half-asleep. "How my beautiful girl today?"

"Sore, thirsty, and still sleepy." She replied honestly. "You?"

"I'll let you know in a few hours. Go back to sleep."

"And risk you scampering off? Not a chance mister." She shoved on his shoulder, trying to fully wake him. "We need to talk, Greg."

"Break things off later. Sleep now."

"I'm not breaking things off. I'm going to lecture you about not letting me see you for almost a week."

"I was hunting Moriarty."

"Bullshit."

"I was busy?"

"Bullshit again."

"I was afraid."

"There's the honesty." She wanted to turn on her other side to face him, but she didn't want to put too much pressure on her wound. "This was not your fault."

"Rosie…"

"Hush and listen." The words grated against her throat, making it more raw and sore than it already was. "This. Was. Not. Your. Fault. You didn't make Moriarty kidnap me. You didn't make him come into my business under false pretenses, gain my trust, and then throttle me until I passed out and carry me off to a dilapidated hole-in-the-wall to spend a week of never-ending hell trying to survive. You didn't make him hurt me or manipulate me. I know you. I know how you are. I know you spent that week desperately trying to figure out your clue in between searching every nook and cranny of London for me. You did everything you could to be my hero." She bumped her forehead against his. "You did everything you could to be Sir Galahad, and I desperately glad you weren't able to be."

Greg frowned. "Why?"

"Because Moriarty would have killed you." Rose said simply. "He thought Mrs. Hudson, Anderson, and I were all easy to control. He thought we had no idea of how to defend ourselves or that we didn't have the courage to launch a united attack against him. He wouldn't have thought that about you.

"You're a cop and a good one. He knew you would fight, and you have enough training that you'd probably win. He wouldn't have kidnapped you or anyone else, except perhaps Molly. He would have shot you on sight. In fact, after a couple days passed and he didn't bring anyone else in, I thought he had shot some of you."

"After Anderson disappeared, we adjusted our plan." Greg reached his hand up, playing with one of her killers. "Mycroft sent out untraceable phones. Once we figured out our clue, we messaged him and he sent people to sit on the location and wait for Moriarty." His mouth twisted into a grimace. "He never showed."

"I think he had sensors notifying him when one of the locations was breached." Rose murmured. "He checked his phone a lot, like he was constantly waiting for information."

He nodded, resting his forehead against hers. "I thought you were going to die, Rosie." He whispered, his voice breaking. "I thought I'd be gathering pieces of you from every corner of the city."

"But you didn't. I'm here. Right here." She brought his hand up to her cheek, pressing into the palm. "I'm alive and I plan to stay that way for a long time."

He nodded. His breaths were shaky and forced. "I love you, Rosie."

"I love you too, Greg." She turned her head, pressing a light kiss into his palm. "If you promise me that you'll still be here when I wake up, we can go back to sleep."

"I promise."

"Good." She shifted tenderly, catching a glance of Ryan watching them with a small smile on his face. "Go see Molly, you voyeur." She shouted playfully, molding her body back against Greg's. "There are two other brutes to keep me safe."

Ryan didn't have to be told twice. "I'll see if I can find some Jell-O when I come back."

"You're awesome."

"So are you."

"Go get your own girlfriend." Greg growled playfully, carefully pulling Rose back against him. "Leave me with mine."

"Planning on it, sir." Ryan sent them a wink before leaving the room, whispering instructions to his colleagues.

Greg shook his head, kissing the back of Rosie's next. "They're not going to sleep in your bedroom when you go home, are they?"

"If they try, I'll use my skillet on them."

"God I love you."

* * *

Rose looked up as yet another floral bouquet was rolled in and rolled her eyes. News had somehow leaked to the media about her kidnapping and subsequent escape, and now everyone and their mother was sending her flowers. Her room was full to bursting. She'd started sending some to the terminal patients and maternity ward just to make space. "More? Jesus H. Christ. You'd think people had better things to spend their money on."

The nurse shrugged, plopping the bouquet on her bedside table and handing Rose the card. "You're a celebrity. The brave woman who escaped the psychopath."

Rose's eyes widened, sending Ryan a panicked glance. He raised his cell phone to signal that Mycroft was already on it. The nurse tsked, leaving the room. "This had got to stop."

"He's working on it, Rosie. Gag orders take time."

"Right." She sighed heavily, reluctantly opening the card. Whoever had sent this batch had obviously phoned in the order. The card was typed. It read: _Did you know… In Germany it is not against the law for prisoners to try to escape as a need for freedom is considered a biological imperative. Did you know… In a study of 90 patients fired upon by rubber bullets, one died, 17 were permanently disabled, and 41 required hospital treatment? Did you know… While a popular misconception, sociopaths are as incapable of anger as they are of all other standardly recognized emotions. Get well soon. JYJM._

Her heart froze. Shakily, she handed the card over to Ryan. He glanced over it, instantly on his phone and talking to Mycroft, trying to trace the origins of the flowers. Rose shuddered, wishing above all else that she could curl into a little ball and cry. It looked like Moriarty wasn't finished with her.

* * *

_**Please read and review.**_


	19. Chapter 19

_**Niflheim89: Thank you for the reviews. Rose has this endearing quality of blunt candor mixed with honest concern for those around her that meshes so well with Mycroft's quiet way of working in the background to look after the people he cares about that makes them a perfect match. I almost wanted to make her end things with Lestrade and go for Mycroft, but that didn't seem fair. As for writing a Mycroft-centric story, see the PM I sent you. I didn't want to deviate too far from the show's story line or create an entire AU for what the next season may be (though I might have done that anyway by assuming Moriarty is actually alive), so Moriarty had to escape. I'm glad you like Rose. She's definitely one of my favorite creations. I'm very sorry about the typos. I check through several times before posting, but I still miss things and I don't have a beta. This is the last chapter. I hope it doesn't disappoint. Thank you again for the reviews. They're a boost to my ever-flagging self-esteem.**_

_**Author's Note: This is the last chapter for Guiding Change and Making Progress. I'm not as upset to see it end as I was with Words Like Bullets, but it still hurts to say good-bye. There will be other stories, of course. I have a Dr. Banner/OC planned out for anyone interested in the Marvel universe as well as other Sherlock and Star Trek stories. I also have stories in mind for Supernatural, Harry Potter, and Boondock Saints. If you're interested in any of those, check into my profile from time to time or follow me as an author so you get an alert when I post a new story. Thank you all for the support you've given this story. There were many times that a timely review or a notice saying it had gotten a new follower was all that kept it going. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. See you on the next ride.**_

_**Love,**_

_**J.M.**_

* * *

Rose laughed, stumbling along behind Greg. She'd been out of the hospital for three weeks. Her wound was healed. The stitched were gone, and, though she still had to take it easy, she was able to go back home and resume her life. Mycroft, unsurprisingly, had volunteered to be her sounding board, and he stopped by nightly for coffee and conversation. She'd managed to talk him down from three bodyguards to one, so Ryan and a rather hefty, silent gentleman that gruffly informed her that people called him Sparkles, watched after her in twelve-hour shifts. Fortunately, Sparkles seemed to like her couch.

Sherlock had administered the ibogaine himself and he, Greg, and John guided her through the trip. She hadn't taken so much as an Advil since she was released, even though the pain was sometimes excruciating. Molly's relationship with Ryan was growing by leaps and bounds. It looked like coroner might have finally gotten over Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson still fussed and fretted, but she'd taken Sally and Phillip under her wing as charges in addition to Sherlock, so, aside from the occasional visit to spoil Sparkles and Ryan, she let Rose readapt to her life in peace. Her fathers had returned to their respective homes, though Pop had mentioned something about a job offer at a newspaper in Cardiff. Daddy had reluctantly informed her that he and Pop were considering giving it another go. Rose tried not to let her amusement, or her delight, show. This was something they had to work through on their own.

Mycroft's sources had managed to track the flowers to fake credit card called in through a burner phone. She hadn't heard from Moriarty since, but it didn't stop her from looking over her shoulder every time she left the house.

She and Greg were still facing their demons. It wasn't easy. They were completely honest with each other, and the revelations had shaken both their cores, but they were determined to work it out. She had faith that, one way or another, it would all be fine in the end.

He had organized a surprise for her today. They were going somewhere special, but he wouldn't tell her where. The blindfold he made her wear once they got in the car, but she reminded herself that this was Greg, who would rather kill himself than ever hurt her, and consoled her rattled nerves by gripping his hand so tightly she nearly broke it.

"We're almost there." He murmured, guiding her with a hand at the small of her back.

"How much farther?" She asked. They weren't in London anymore. The air was too clean.

He grinned against her cheek, giving her a kiss. "Just a little bit more. Is the blindfold ok?"

"For right now." She murmured, clutching at his hand. "It won't be for much longer."

"And, stop." He drew her to a halt, stepping behind her to wrap his arms around her waist. "You can take off the blindfold now."

Rose laughed, pulling off the scrap of cloth. They were standing in front of a beautiful little cottage. It looked like something out of a fairytale. Wisteria climbed up the walls and a half-open Dutch door practically begged for them to come inside. There were several others just like it along the street, but each home had nice yard and plenty of space. "What is this place?"

"Our new home, if you like it."

She twisted, glancing back at him. "What?"

Greg blushed, something she'd never seen him do in her life, and looked at the ground. "After Magnussen, you said you wouldn't let him drive you out of _your_ home. It grated on me. I thought it was just because you wouldn't let me pull you out of danger, but it was more than that. It was the fact that Baker Street is your home, not ours, and the flat is my home, not ours. We're living in a separate-yet-together limbo that all couples face before they either break it off or move into together, and I'm tired of balancing on that dividing line.

"So I started searching for places. It took a while, but I finally found this. I knew you'd love it the first time I saw it, and it's perfect for us. Three bedrooms, two baths, an office and a large yard. We're close enough to the city that it will be easy to get to work, but far enough away that we're not smothered by pollution. We'll need to update the kitchen, and you'll have to decide how you'd like to paint it, but it's ready to move in as soon as we give word to the realtor."

"It's for rent?"

"For sale."

"I don't know if I can afford that." Rose worried her bottom lip, but hope bloomed in her heart. She loved Baker Street, but she didn't feel safe there anymore. Moriarty had planted a bomb there once. What would he do next?

"I've already figured that part. I can cover the mortgage and grocery bill if you can cover the rest."

"I'll need to buy car."

"Ryan and Sparkles have a company car assigned to them. Since you're not allowed to go anywhere without them, you won't need to worry about that for several years, at least. Never, if Mycroft has his way."

"What about the down payment?"

"Mycroft helped me make some very profitable investments several years ago. Enough to put Josh and any future children through uni and buy this house outright, if I chose. You'd never feel like this was really you're home too if I did that, though, so I'm refraining."

"You do realize most people just move into their significant other's place when they're taking this step, right? They don't go out and buy a whole new house."

Greg turned her around, resting his forehead against hers. "We need a space that we can make _ours_, not one that already belongs to one of us. Do you want this, Rosie?"

She grinned, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Of course!" she exclaimed, pressing kisses all over his cheeks. "Can we go inside?"

Ryan stepped up, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Did she say yes?"

Greg glowered. "Yes."

"Ah. Good then." He took out an envelope, passing it to Rose. "You'll need this then."

Rose furrowed her brow, tearing open the letter. A set of keys fell out. She looked up at Ryan suspiciously, but took out the letter. Laughter bubbled out. Wordlessly, she passed it to Greg.

"To the happy couple, enjoy your new home. The realtor is waiting for your signatures. Sincerely, Mycroft Holmes." Greg read out, shaking his head. "That bastard."

"He loves us." Rose said simply, shaking the keys in his face. "Come on! I want to see what it looks like inside." Greg nodded, sliding and arm across her shoulders and tucking her close to his chest. She leaned into him, her smile growing as the door loomed closer. This was the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for her, but she couldn't resist teasing him about it. "So… how many romantic comedies did you watch before you got the idea for this?"

Greg laughed, kissing the top of her head. "Shut up, Rosie."

* * *

Sherlock quietly helped her pack, and scowl firmly in place. He was practically slamming books in their boxes. She had a feeling that he'd be trying to break them or ripping out pages if he didn't respect books so much.

Mrs. Hudson was helping as well, carefully packing away the china set that had been Pop's mother's, and Sparkles was gently wrapping picture frames in padding and stacking them in their container. Rose was putting away her little knick-knacks. Most of her clothes had already been packed. The movers would be there tomorrow.

"You should not be leaving." Sherlock finally ground out, dropping the finished box of books on top of the three he'd already packed. "You belong at Baker Street."

"I don't belong anywhere, Sherlock. I belong everywhere. I'm flexible like that."

"Rose…"

"I work less than three miles away. It's not as if I'll never be back."

"What if I need to talk to you?"

"I left my mobile number, Greg's mobile number, our landline, the number to the parlour, and the address to the house on your fridge, along with both of our e-mail addresses and my Skype name. You'll always be able to get ahold of me."

"And if it's the middle of the night?"

"There's a spare key on your key ring. It's the bright purple one."

"I'm going to need that key back." Sparkles commanded quietly, holding out his hand.

Rose slapped it down, giving him a warning glare. "No you won't. Mycroft already knows he has it."

"I do not like leaving the city, Rose." Sherlock interrupted, completely ignoring Sparkles and his demand.

She rolled her eyes. "Then give me a call and I'll come to you."

"That will take too long."

"Then learn patience." Rose snapped. Shooting Mrs. Hudson and Sparkles an apologetic smile, she grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and led him into her bedroom, slamming the door closed before Sparkles could try to follow them in. "Sherlock," she started sitting next to him on the bed, "I'm not going to abandon you just because I'm moving. I'll come by everyday on my lunch break and you, Greg, and I will have dinner every Sunday night if that makes you feel better."

"It will not be the same." Sherlock argued petulantly.

"Life isn't the same." Rose pointed out. "Life is never the same. We can have all of the routines and rituals that we like, but life isn't static. It changes around us all the time. Every tiny decision we make impacts us in some way. We have to learn to adjust and moves with the changes, or we get left behind."

He looked at her through his lashes and she had a flash of the scared little boy she always knew he had inside. "Will I be left behind if I don't adjust?"

"Not by me." She assured him. "No matter what happens, no matter where I go or where I move, I won't leave you behind. I don't care if it means loading myself on a crowded, suffocating train every single day and hiking through half of London, I won't leave you behind."

Sherlock chuckled. "I suppose, if you're willing to do that, I can step into the suburbs from time to time."

"Perhaps for Sunday supper?" She prodded gently, smiling at the small compromise. "We have a lovely kitchen, and plenty of space. I'll even invite John and Mary from time to time, and the whole crew on holidays."

"Really?" Sherlock looked skeptic. She couldn't blame him. She wasn't exactly known for her tolerance of crowds.

"Really." Rose confirmed, nudging his shoulder. "Come on. Let's go finish packing. Mrs. Hudson has promised us tea and cookies when we're done."

"Biscuits, not cookies."

"Whatever."

* * *

"You have a beautiful home, Rosie."

Rose screamed, dropping box of she'd been carrying. Later, she'd be grateful that there was nothing breakable in it. Frightened and on the verge of bolting, she looked around for Ryan. The guard was on the couch, breathing deeply, as if he were asleep.

"I didn't kill him." Moriarty assured her. "He'll be up and about in an hour or so."

Rose nodded shakily, quickly backing up. Very little had been unpacked. Certainly nothing she couldn't use as a weapon. Greg was at work and Sparkles wasn't due for another six hours. She was alone, with no way to defend herself. Her stomach dropped out as she realized she was either going to die or be abducted again.

"I'm not here to hurt you, Rosie." Jim coaxed, holding up his hands. "I'm not going to kidnap you. I'm not going to kill you. I would just like to talk?"

"About what?" She asked shakily, trying to remember where the closest extension to the landline was.

"Bullet-proof vests."

"Excuse me?"

Jim sighed, running a hand through his hair. "May I have a coffee, please?"

"Yeah. Uh-huh. Sure. Let me get right on that, Mr. I'm-going-to-kill-you-and-all-friends-because-I'm-jealous-of-a-fellow-sociopath."

"Maybe I overreacted."

"Maybe?" Rose screeched. Moriarty was stalking toward her, following her through the house. "No. There is no maybe. You didn't just overreact. You tried kill a bee with a bazooka and now you're acting shocked when people see you tryin' to buy insecticide."

"What?"

"Never mind." She thought there might be some hairspray in the bathroom. Maybe she could blind him and make a run for it. "The point is, you took it beyond overreacting."

"Just give me ten minutes, Rosie. Please?"

"Why should I?"

"Because I have a proposition for you, and, if you agree, you'll never have to worry about your friends or family again."

Rose stopped short, staring at him with suspicion. "What do you mean?"

He smiled. "Sit down. Have a coffee with me, and I'll explain."

"Fine But you walk in front of me."

He laughed, folding his hands behind his head and walking toward the kitchen. Rose followed a safe distance. She really should make a break for it while his back was turned, but curiosity was getting the better of her. "Same as always?" She asked, turning on the Kuerig Mrs. Hudson had gotten them as a housewarming present Rose had given the woman a huge kiss on the cheek. "Three sugars, lots of cream?"

"You remember!"

"Hard to forget." She popped a cup in the machine and set a mug under the drip. They waited in awkward silence, Rose keeping one eye on the machine and a one eye on Moriarty at all times, while the coffee brewed. Carefully, she carried the steaming mugs to the table. "Now, what's your proposition?"

"You described yourself as a rubber bullet."

"I did."

He played with his coffee, alternately stirring and tapping with his spoon "How would you like to be a bullet-proof vest instead?"

Rose took a cautious sip, watching Moriarty warily. "What do you mean?"

"I am not one for friends." Jim stuttered out haltingly.

She rolled her eyes, stopping him right there. "Look. Stop trying to manipulate me with this whole timid, innocent kid act. I know better, remember?"

He laughed, clapping with delight. "That! That right there is why I'm here! That brutal honesty that you spout out without fear of the consequences. It's wonderful!"

"What's your point?"

"My point is this." He leaned forward. "I'm willing to make you a one-time offer. I will leave your friends and family alone. I won't threaten them. I won't try to kill them. I won't even arrange for someone else to do it for me."

"In exchange for what?"

"Coffee, once a week, for at least an hour. We talk. We laugh. You call me on my lies. It will be a blast."

"And why should I trust you to hold up your end of the bargain? You've said to yourself. You're 'so changeable.'" She mimicked his inflection, making him laugh again.

Shrugging, he pulled out his mobile, flicking open a document and passing it to her. It was a list of everyone she knew. Their names, addresses, even links to their schedules. "Because if you don't, I will send this to ever assassin in Europe with an offer of €1,000,000 for each kill."

"That still doesn't tell me how I'm supposed to trust you to keep your word." Rose replied with forced calmness, handing the phone back. "You could send that list whether I agree or not."

He nodded. "True. How about this?" He opened another document. It was a list of all his aliases, properties, businesses, bank accounts, and contacts. Her own phone buzzed in her pocket. Checking it quickly, she saw that he'd sent her the same list. "Now you have me by the short hairs."

"What makes you think I won't send this to Greg and Mycroft this instant?"

"Because you want to change me." Moriarty replied with confidence. "You want to make me a better person. Most people, including myself, would call that a fruitless endeavor, but I'd like to give you that chance."

"You're trying to be manipulative again." Rose muttered distractedly, carefully trying to memorize the information. "This isn't a favor to me. Don't pretend like it is." She closed the document, pushing the phone across the table. "The second one of them gets hurt, and I get even the slightest hint that you're involved, I'll turn over all your information to Mycroft."

"Is that a yes?" He asked with a grin.

"That's a warning." Rose corrected. "You can come by the parlour Tuesdays at four. I assume you'll be able to get in without letting anyone know who you are?"

"Absolutely."

"Good. Now get out of my house before Ryan wakes up."

Moriarty beamed. "Pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Creekwood."

"Out. Before I change my mind."

* * *

Mycroft walked in the back door while Rose was chopping carrots. It was only the middle of the day, but she was making chicken and dumplings and needed to set the broth to simmer so that the full flavor of the chicken, vegetables, and spices could meld. "Good afternoon, Rose."

"Hi Mycroft." She smirked, throwing a celery slice at him. He adroitly caught it and popped it in his mouth, waving Ryan out of the room at the same time. "What brings you by?"

"I hear Ryan took and impromptu nap yesterday."

Rose nodded, faking a worried pout. "Poor dear must have been exhausted. You should see about scheduling him more time off."

He glowered, pulling her cutting board away. "I have seen that man stay up for four days and still get off a perfect shot at the range. He doesn't just fall asleep. What happened?"

"Nothing you need to worry about." Rose whispered, more than aware that, even in another part of the house, Ryan had ears like a bat. "I handled it."

"Was it Moriarty?"

"No. The Easter Bunny popped by for a visit and fed Ryan a chocolate-covered sedative." She hissed sarcastically. "Of course it was Moriarty. I handled it."

"How?" He demanded.

"I made a deal with the devil to protect my loved ones' souls." She slammed the knife down, sending a piece of carrot sailing off into Never-Never Land. She'd probably find it when she next cleaned behind the fridge. "Dump my phone. You'll find a message containing a document that lists all of his aliases and information."

Mycroft's eyes widened. "Why didn't you tell me about this yesterday?"

"Multiple reasons. Mainly because this whole life I've found myself in has me relying on old spy movies for proper protocol, and anything less than face-to-face communication is always intercepted." She quickly finished the carrots, sweeping them to the side to make room for the onion. "Also because I know you'll run the names and numbers, and I'm positive that they're all bullshit. He probably has alerts set up and, if any of those names get searched on anything deeper than Google, he knows he can't trust me and he sends out a list of all my friends and family, putting a bounty on their heads."

"Wonderful."

"You're telling me."

"I might have ways around that."

"I can't risk it, Mycroft. My fathers were on that list. Greg was on that list. Your brother and all my employees were on that list." She ran the knife and onion under cold water, trying to minimize the tear-inducing effect. "There are too many lives at stake."

"I can protect them." Mycroft tried arguing.

Rose shook her head. "Your power doesn't extend outside of the U.K. Pop and Bubba are in the states and Stella is spending a semester abroad in Spain. I have to play it his way, and you have to let me."

"And what is his way?"

"I can't tell you."

"Rose…"

"No, Mycroft! Just trust me to handle this."

"And if he captures you again?"

Rose winced. "I don't know, but it's a risk I have to take. There were over a dozen people on that list, and what he's asking is minor in comparison to keeping them alive."

"What about the risk to you?" Mycroft squeezed her shoulder, forcing her to look up at him. "You nearly died once. Do you want to risk it again?"

"I risk it every time I step out my front door. This just heightens the probability."

"That's such a comfort. Truly. I can't tell you how much relief that brings me."

Rose laughed, nudging him with her shoulder. It was nice to know he worried, and it was a relief that someone knew she'd have regular contact with Moriarty. It made her feel safer, somehow. It's not as if she could tell Greg He'd fly off the handle, start stalking her, and then everyone she knew and loved would die by an assassin's bullet. "I'm sorry, Mycroft, but this is for the people I love. What would you do for Sherlock?"

His mouth thinned out. "I hate when you turn the tables on me. I was just fine before you started forcing me to view things from someone else's perspective."

"You should be used to it by now, and know you weren't." Rose finished chopping the onion and slid all the vegetables into the steaming pot on the stove. "Sit down, Mycroft. Take the rest of the day off. I'll break out the brandy and cigarettes."

"And that is why I put up with you."

She laughed, kissing his cheek just to watch him grimace and swipe at the spot like a six year-old getting kisses from his mom at school. "Nah. You put up with me because you have a weak spot for goldfish."

"The only problem with that is they generally do not have a great life expectancy."

Rose bopped him on the head with a spoon. "Don't be depressing."

She poured the alcohol and dug out the smokes and ashtray from where she'd hid them under the sink. Greg was trying to quit again.

Looking around at her new home, settling across from one of the new people she'd met, realizing the new direction her life was taking, made her feel oddly at peace. She had battled burglars with a skillet, broken a goon's nose, been kidnapped by a psychopath, been stabbed by said psychopath's ruffian, and ripped through said ruffian's Achilles tendon with a pocket knife. If that wasn't enough, she'd danced at a wedding with one of the most famous detectives in the world, been seen _in flagrante_ with her boyfriend by her landlady, been adopted as the pet goldfish of the infamous Mycroft Holmes, and gained a new home and a steady life with a man who still made her heart flutter every time she saw him. The best part? The adventure was just beginning, and she couldn't wait to see what came next.

* * *

_**Please read and review.**_


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